A Beautiful World
by SeriousScribble
Summary: Each one has his own perspective, but in passing, they entwine.– In a world with Voldemort, Harry's fight is only one part of the story: A glimpse into life at the eve of revolution. Set during DH, broadly Canon-compliant. Twoshot.
1. Behind All These Windows

**Behind All These Windows/A Beautiful World  
** _A twoshot in sixteen pictures_

.:!:.

Disclaimer: The world is Rowling's, I just play with ideas.  
A/N: Finally got around to cleaning this up. Part B will be posted tomorrow. Happy Walpurgis!

* * *

 **Part A: Behind All These Windows**

 _And so we watch the happenings within;  
_ _Behind the walls, behind all these windows._

 _The Witch_

"Yesterday, I took a stroll down Diagon Alley. I had to collect my new robes for the Walpurgis celebrations at Larina's, the seamstress having finished her work, and I had a few other errands to run besides, looking forward to tonight's – stop. Remove last word, replace with _that night's_ , continue – festivities. My good mood, however, soon took a sharp downturn. New paragraph, continue.

"On the way, I was accosted no less than three times by a begging Wandless – asking for money, asking me to plead their cases, and finally proving bothersome enough to force the Aurors into action. Similar scenes, I am told, are not an exception; in fact, they occur with increasing frequency every day. In the light of this unacceptable development, a new approach is needed. Clearly, the policy of lenience thus far taken, the _pro tempore_ resolution allowing the Wandless to live on our streets, is not working out. The Ministry, either unable or unwilling to remove them permanently – a position which my readers will recall I have argued for on many occasions – has to come up with a better solution. One such solution might be to get them to make themselves useful. New paragraph, continue.

"The idea behind this is simple. House-Elves are valuable and rare. Magical contraptions are complicated and expensive. So why not put the Mudbloods to work – even as a way to make them pay back, spell by spell, the magic they so impudently stole? The Imperius Spell –"

There was a knock on the door.

Cecilia Selwyn sighed, displeased, and examined her nails and the smooth skin on the back of her hands in exasperation. She was sitting in a large, comfortable armchair, leant back, her dainty, stockinged feet on the large oaken desk, and _wanted_ to finish her column for tomorrow's _Prophet_ , but apparently, that was not to be.

The steady swishing of the quill that had been the only sound filling the room, besides her clear voice, stopped. A questioning sound was made at her. She nodded to the halfblood who was taking her notes.

"Go on and see you type it up to where we have halted. We shall recommence our session later. Yes!"

The last was directed at the apparent visitor without. The handle moved and the door opened. The editor and owner of the _Daily Prophet_ himself, Barnabas Cuffe, poked inside his seasoned face, while the girl with the quill obediently bowed her head in response to words thus spoken.

"Yes, Miss Selwyn. What is the title going to be?"

Cecilia supposed she could have used an auto-dict quill, or even written it herself – her writing charm was neat and very tidy – but at any event, she liked seeing the halfblood work for her. The girl certainly knew her place and was an eager servant. She waited for her reply patiently, the eyes dutifully lowered to the carpet.

"Title it 'A pragmatist's approach to the Mudblood quandary'." Her impatient hand waved her out. Important company was waiting. "How may I be of service, Mr. Cuffe?" Behind him, the door clicked shut again and they were alone. Her smile widened in the thus gained intimacy. "A pleasure to see you, Barny."

When she had been new in the company, a year prior, she had stood in awe of the editor and owner of the newspaper, but soon enough, it became apparent that he had a special interest in her. His straying gaze was hard to miss, and she had quickly decided she quite liked it. And small blame to him! – how could he _not_ notice? She was young, twenty-five, and her modern, fashionably-cut robes looked _good_ on her, just like her honey blonde hair, cropped short in a bob, did. The old crones scrunched up their noses whenever they laid eyes on her; she hardly cared. Cecilia was a modern witch, and long hair was always such a hassle to deal with. Spells every morning! And really, looking at the editor-in-chief, here was one who certainly hadn't minded.

His mouth nowshowed the faintest hint of a smile.

"Don't presume, Miss Selwyn."

His tone was slightly mocking, though not in a malicious way, rather in a manner that never failed to get her excited, ever since he had invited her to their first outing a month ago. Since then, she had gladly played what role was appropriately hers in something other people might have called an affair; entertaining herself, and, so she hoped, him as well. She was witty, quick-minded, and well-educated. It was the least she could do.

Yes, she was quite thankful indeed for the opportunity he had given her, since after Frank Montgomery's sudden disappearance some months past, she was by no means the first choice for his position given her age, and had always expected – and never minded – that there was more to come. As though he had read her mind, he continued: "I gave you the column as I always knew Frank's work to be yours in truth, and I took a liking to your style. You are good. Other … considerations were not included."

She tilted her head and tried to determine whether she believed him. Were the two connected or were they not? She _was_ good, naturally, but her appointment had drawn the ire and jealousy of not a few more senior writers that had been disregarded in her favour and had felt entitled to a promotion. He certainly had gotten more than one earful in bitter complaints. Featuring as prominently every day as she did was every writer's dream. Cuffe hadn't been at all obliged to give the spot to her.

It was probably well either way, she finally decided. Glancing at him, his somewhat portly form, but with a well-defined, sharply angled face and the clever dark eyes that hinted at a certain shrewdness she had come to understand quite well, she knew that she liked her work and she liked their relationship, as a way to pay back a favour or no. He was thirty years older, married, but so what? Getting closer to him could only be advantageous for her career. He was an important figure in even the highest pureblood circles.

"I separate business matters and private matters most strictly, as you well know."

His words dragged her out of her reverie. There was a pause. He cleared his throat. "As it happens, I was about to leave for the club. Would you give me the honour of being my companion for lunch?"

Inside, she started to giggle at his manner of separating their professional interaction and private relationship – he _always_ found ways to get her off work, so they could spend some leisure time together! – but that quickly turned into excitement. A lunch at the _Sorcerer's Club_? You bet she wanted to! She offered him a beaming smile, and was on her feet in an instant.

"Rather, thank you kindly for the invitation, Barnabas."

She slipped into her shoes, summoned her coat – a nice, expensive niffler fur – and her purse and walked out into the anteroom, next to Cuffe, where she received curious and jealous looks in equal measure. By Merlin, it was _good_ to be a young, attractive pureblood-witch!

Diagon Alley rested in peaceful sunshine, but a chilly wind reminded everyone that it was only just May, and she was glad for the self-regulating warmth of her cloak. There was talk about adding meteolojinxes to the entire area, to keep the worst of weather away, but that was expensive and complicated. The Community Development Bureau was still looking into it. Until then, cloaks like hers were a must in the chilly seasons. Cuffe's indigo robe billowed behind him in the wind, and she suspected he had a warming charm as well.

In all fairness, the lack of decisiveness in typical bureaucracy fashion she did not particularly mind. It allowed her, after all, to take her coat for a walk – she pulled it closer around her, admiring the way the gold the nifflers had been fed made the black fur shimmer in the light, relishing how she walking down the street, elegant and beautiful, at the side of an important wizard.

There were other purebloods out and about too, notable figures, distinguished from the rest by their rich clothing, true enough, but more than that by their bearing – nobility begetting noble conduct, and to which degree one could see it here, on a day out at Diagon Alley! A grace and an obligation, demanding of her and of each the utmost of that which they could give, and expecting in turn to be given the reverence that was their due. And thus she walked, out on a stroll at lunch time, to see and be seen; amiably greeted by those that were her peers, and reverently so by the others, the looks admiring and the hats tipped. Some even bowed – to their – _her_ – station, to their blood, as a tribute to magic, as a pledge to the best within them. She wanted the world and she was given it, because she was young and beautiful, because her blood was pure, because it was her heritage and birthright. This was how life was meant to be.

They walked slowly, leaving her time enough to take in the displays and people and Cuffe room to greet acquaintances. She nodded and shook a few important hands, pleased, while otherwise happily watching the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley.

Down to her left, a wizard just levitated a new sign up to the front above his store. _The Dark Night_ , she read, and shook her head, amused. Anything labelled _Dark_ had experienced an astonishing demand, as though everyone had been roused from a deep slumber, tried to make up for years of repression, for all the time where _Dark_ had been nothing else than a curse word. How far they had come!

At the start, directly after the Dark Lord's reforms, many shops had closed and, vacated by their owners, left behind the drab feeling of empty buildings and boarded up storefronts. But soon, sooner than she would have thought, other, new shops sprang up and took over the vacancies, liberated by the new laws; and by now, only a few odd places weren't open, and the street had returned to its former liveliness. The addition of Magic Alley, where many of the most notable wizards and witches had built beautiful townhouses or created porches to their manors elsewhere in the country really had done wonders.

It was this that had turned Diagon Alley into the boulevard of displays, the pageant that she right this moment was part of herself. It was now truly the heart of Britain, the beating, pulsing centre of magic, a gift to all wizards and witches, peaceful and prosperous.

At the corner, a gaggle of small children ran into Diagon Alley, passing the statue with the fountain that mirrored the one at the Ministry, and pressing their noses against the shop windows; free to venture wherever they wanted, unhindered by Muggles, protected by the Aurors that kept up the Ministry's order, the two crossed wands on their wine-red robes a prompt for the present and a promise for the future: _Magic is Might_.

She said farewell to a member of the Wizengamot, and continued with Cuffe down the street. A boy in front of one of the new shops loudly praised what was the newest attraction: Licensed Mugglehunting. The windows behind him were the one of a travel agency, offering day outings to a special kind of Muggle park and help with the three Powerfuls. It was surprising how many wizards and witches considered it beyond their ability to perform a simple Imperius Spell to defend against Muggle attacks. At least it was now taught at Hogwarts. The 'liberation of magic'-campaign the Ministry had started was bearing fruits.

Colourful pictures in the store displays showed impressions from the park. She looked at the poster, curious. The Muggles looked rather like apes, she thought. No wonder they were inferior. They couldn't exactly help it.

Cuffe greeted the owner with a smile, and moved onwards to the sedate-looking building at the end of the street, quicker now, probably because he was hungry. The other wizards respectfully went out of their way, and she noticed it, pleased. There were only two things that marred the picture of a perfect noon.

The twisted and torn bronze doors of Gringotts bore witness to the attack that had taken place earlier in the day. The news had hit the office this morning like tidal wave. Barnabas himself had written the front-page article for the _Evening Prophet_.

Cecilia shivered involuntarily. To think that Harry Potter was still out there, after almost a year! And the other Undesirables! Who knew what else they might be planning? Perhaps plotting even bigger, deadlier attacks on their world? She did not understand these people. How could they not see how wonderful their world had become, finally, after all that uncertainty and fear? What did they hope to gain? Why would anyone attack Gringotts, especially now, when relations with the goblins were strained anyway? Was it a calculated attempt to spread discord?

The other unpleasantness were the begging Wandless. There – another one darted away from a witch who was shouting and shaking her fist, and vanished into the dark mouth of a back alley, chased by an Auror. Even here, directly in front of the _Sorcerer's Club_!

At least the Aurors were acting now.

 _The Traitor_

"Hey! You! Stop right there!"

Nigel Cresswell ducked behind a dustbin, and looked around quickly, trying to spot the pursuing Aurors. From his hiding spot, through the gap between wall and metal, he had a good view of the Alley, where most passers-by did their best to look away and disapparate quickly. The pureblood couple moved on as if nothing had happened, and entered the _Sorcerer's Club_ ; but not before having a little chat and wager in passing. A thousand Galleons – enough in a year's span for a family to get by, if need be, enough so that nowadays, too many found it out of their reach. The times where even a dragon feeder could make thirty galleons in a month were past.

A mere thirty Galleons, not even the wager's amount in a year! A fraction of what his father had made as Head of a decent Ministry office, which he knew for well above seven thousand, his disinterest for money, bred by the unquestioning complacency of the comfortably-well-off, notwithstanding; a fraction far from what was his wont, for a task equally beneath his ambitions, and, he resumed with a bitter smile, certainly something he would take now for work gladly, if he could but have it.

Of course, that was quite an impossibility. Wandless were not allowed to work, steal the work of wizards, as they said, the work that was due those with better blood; and each was to do as he was bidden, each according to his station.

The merits of that resolution reflected in his dark eyes. Anger glowed in a deep-set fire there, imparting a fierce, driven manner on his person, otherwise unremarkable. The soft curves of a sheltered boy's face had hardened into sharply defined lines, an energetically jutting chin, a resolute mouth; features bold enough to be memorable, handsome, even, in good times, even if he himself had never realised such, but now on the thin, somewhat gaunt side, as much from worry as from hunger. Further a medium build, neither stocky nor lanky, a shock of brown hair, finally plain black robes that had seen better days. That was all of him.

And thus, that smouldering resentment within was now directed at the pureblood couple just entering the building yonder. Purebloods, of course they were purebloods! Even without their destination, it was obvious. One look at their rich clothes, at their arrogant gait, the carriage of their heads, their unconcerned countenance, as if the street was theirs to own and they had not a care in the world, told him all. They were here every day. Taking a walk, enjoying the sunshine or complaining about rain, eating nice lunches and dinners in nice restaurants for month's worths of pay, celebrating life as if their name wasn't synonymous for death, as if their henchmen – _Snatchers_ – weren't hunting him and every other Muggleborn in the country, as if _wizards and witches_ weren't killed or orphaned or cast out of their homes in rags, starved, beaten, tortured or worse.

But for them, they did not count as such. They took their wands, claimed their magic was stolen, and left them out on the streets if they were lucky or in Azkaban's clutches if they were not.

This was their idea of a perfect world. He wanted to smash it to pieces, to shout out the injustice and shove it into their ignorant faces – didn't anyone care! – not the purebloods, but, at least, the rest? – though he knew it was useless. The bitter answer was that no, they did not care, had no desire to look, as he did, through the windows at the world from without, to see the injustice within; not as long as they – the halfbloods, the majority – thought their own lives safe.

Nigel was making ready to leave, cautiously peeking out from out of his hiding place, when screams reached his ears. They had caught Justin.

He jumped up and rounded the corner, back into the Alley, which now lay silent and deserted, as though even the buildings were holding their breath. Justin was in the middle of the street with one of the Aurors bent over him. With a yell, he ran up to push the man aside, but only got as far as the mouth of the passage, before he was slammed into the wall himself. The second Auror had caught him.

For a second, Nigel desperately tried to escape. Then he took a closer look at the person that was apprehending him, and stopped short in amazement.

"Frederick? Frederick Jones?"

His eyes beheld the answer clearly, but his mind could not conceive of it. It was Frederick Jones, an old friend of his father at the Ministry. He had been over for the evening often enough.

"Get me out of here and _stop_ him," Nigel barked at him, meaning the first Auror. There was a flash of something in Jones' eyes, before his face hardened.

"No can do, son."

To Nigel's horror, he raised his wand and pointed it at him.

"What are you doing, Frederick? What – "

"I'm sorry, Nigel."

At once, Nigel realised what the Auror was implying, but it made no sense. Frederick Jones, the middle-aged man with the pleasant, round face, the old friend of his father's –

"You are a Muggleborn yourself!" he shouted, kicking out as hard as he could. "Traitor!"

"Shut up, _shut up!_ "

A jab with his wand quenched Nigel's voice. Jones pressed him hard against the brick wall and jabbed his thump over his shoulder at the screaming boy.

"Do you think I want to end up like _him_? Or your father? Why do you suppose I'm doing this?" The round face loomed over him as he hissed it at Nigel, his eyes wavering. It was pure fear that was in his look. "I paid a fortune to get my family tree forged and joined the patrols to get away from the Ministry as often as possible. So you keep your mouth well shut – in fact …"

He turned his head out to the street.

"Hey, Travers. I got another one. If you're done, I could use a hand. He is being unhelpful."

On Diagon Alley, Justin was moaning feebly, bleeding from countless cuts and twitching slightly.

 _Traitor_ , shouted Nigel in his mind, his mouth still firmly locked, wriggling harder against the grasp pinning him to the wall. For a moment, he felt the pressure ease, as Jones was distracted by the other Auror coming over. Nigel seized his chance, throwing his entire weight against the body of Jones, and causing the older man to stumble. He was away and back in the alleyway in seconds.

The angry shouts of the two men followed him while he ran, his heart beating rapidly. That had been close, but at least he had the money. Justin had been the one on the lookout. Desperately, he looked back, but the Aurors had stopped chasing him. The immediate danger was over.

"Ah, let 'im run. This one here ain't going anywhere."

An unpleasant laugher filled the alleyway, and the heavy thump told him Justin's body had just been dumped there like a piece of cattle.

" _Crucio!_ "

His howls echoed in Nigel's ears, filling him with the same, helpless rage from earlier. What was there to do? How could he fight against wizards without a wand? There was only the option of escape. _He_ could escape. The other boy wasn't so lucky.

He hadn't even known the other boy that well. He was younger than him by a couple of years, maybe seventeen of age, from Hogwarts – he should have been at Hogwarts, anyway, but of course he had been kicked out, Hogwarts no longer accepted _Mudbloods._ Nigel spat out bitterly. Well, he wouldn't let his sacrifice be in vain. And then, the fate of the other boy fled his mind, because he other, more important things to do.–

 _The Hypocrite_

Nigel weaved through the narrow back alleys and between boarded-up window fronts, past run-down buildings, dreary, dust-caked brick walls, displaying, for all the world to see, for everyone that only cared to look, a faithful mirror of true life, here, today, the world of the forgotten, the unwanted, the outcasts. This was his world, and here he lived – in nothing more than a wooden shed, glued into a corner of a dirty backyard, against the back wall of a shop that never showed this side of it to its customers.

The owner was already waiting.

"Hurry up, boy!"

Nigel stared at Edric Borgin in searing hate, yet held his tongue. Borgin was a pureblood like the rest of them, nasty, arrogant and racist – and maybe even worse besides, not merely because he was violent and altogether unpleasant, but because here was one who could not plead ignorance, one who saw what life was like every day for those not privileged with the right birth, and was fine with it.

Nigel seemingly hadn't been good enough, however, as the short, stooped wizard with the oily hair narrowed his eyes.

"Be grateful that I allow filth such as you to stay here. Where is the gold?"

Certainly Borgin was too fine to ever be mentioned in company of the likes of Nigel, but he was hardly too fine to take an extortionate rent for letting out a shack.

"Here," Nigel spat, flinging the purse at the wizard.

Borgin weighed the leather pouch in his palm, considering, listening to the jingle of coins. Then he grunted and spun around, jabbing his thick thumb over his back. The money vanished in a pocket in his robes quickly.

"Shut the brat up. Got better things to do than to listen Mudblood spawn whinging – for that matter, I can get better tenants for the house. Waiting list's as long as my wand. Stop the noise or get the hell out."

 _The Rebel_

"Mum?"

Nigel stepped inside what Borgin had called "house" – a single dark, small room, with a table, a chair and a mattress. The candle on the table flickered as he moved by, sending the shadows scurrying over the walls, before they retreated back into the corners and the spidery web of beams under the roof where the candlelight never reached.

At the table, in the sole chair, his mother sat. The yellow glow of the candle near her face gave it some merciful warmth and colour in reality long gone, though it also revealed the glinting empty bottle and her eyes, glassy and unfocused. She was drunk again.

It was moments like these that were the worst. All his helplessness culminated here – where he was unable to do anything to fix things, to better their situation, to be of use, even for his own family. Sometimes, he thought his mother might be better off dead – died when his father had, when they had caught up with him after his escape. In the corner, on the mattress, the baby wailed.

"Shhh, Anne." He picked her up, rocking her back and forth in his arms, until she stopped crying and stared up at him with her big blue eyes, trusting and hopeful. Her tiny, dirty fist opened and closed, and suddenly, a tiny miniature broom made of twigs and strings floated over to her. She grabbed the toy, babbling happily. Nigel closed his eyes, unable to watch. So obviously magical. So obviously a witch. How could anyone claim the opposite?

He heard the door go. Jacob shuffled his broad frame into the door frame, blocking out again the light that for a short moment had fallen inside. Nigel turned around.

"Justin?"

Jacob shook his head. "Nothing. Probably already on the way to Azkaban. Maybe dead, if he's lucky."

By now, the rest of his – well, was friends almost too strong a word? he wondered – they were outcasts like him, between twelve and twenty, banded together less by affection than by common histories, orphaned, escaped, hunted, as well as by common goals, arriving here short of any other place that wanted them, staying alive first and foremost on any of their minds – well, but friendly acquaintances, then, and for all he cared, indeed friends in want of any others that could conceivably lay hand on that particular claim–; they had arrived, in any case, returning from begging or stealing and whatever else they did, to earn money; sometimes alone, other times, such as this, together.

"Time for Potterwatch, innit?"

Fiona poked her red head around Jacob's bulky figure, glancing at the small wooden wireless sitting on the table near the bottles. Nigel shrugged.

"Might as well."

He cleared off the bottles, and tried to tune into the station with the password and lower half of a wand, a broken fragment of a different life, but sometimes just serviceable enough to catch the hidden reports. It took him many tries to get it right this time around. The broadcast had already started.

"– the big news today, of course, the appearance of Harry Potter early this morning at Diagon Alley. We can now confirm that it was indeed him. Rapier was in the area at the time. Rapier, what did you see? Is there any proof that it was really Potter?"

"Well, River, unless someone decided to disguise as Potter, which would be a rather peculiar idea, there won't be any doubt about it. But even that aside, no one but Potter would be mad enough to try and ride a dragon out of Gringotts –"

"A dragon?" Jacob asked, wide-eyed. "So that's why Gringotts is closed? Sweet Merlin! Potter on a dragon!"

"– and then flew right over my head – a full-grown, fire-breathing dragon. A Welsh Green, if I had to guess. Gringotts' entrance looks like a mob of angry trolls stopped by for tea. So we don't know what he wanted there, or how he got there, but we do know that he's alive and escaped yet again."

Nigel snorted.

"I don't know why you insist on listening to this nonsense. What does it matter what Potter did or didn't do? He escaped? Great. So what?"

Fiona frowned

"He's our only hope, Nigel!"

He turned towards her, eyes dark and angry.

"Our hope? No, Fiona. We can only count on ourselves. On me, on you, on the people out there. Nothing will get done unless we do it. And we will. Tell everyone that I'll be out in a minute. I have a plan. I only need to put Anne to sleep, and make certain Mum doesn't flip."

The broadcast continued on, starting a talk with guests like Thompson, the founder of the Muggleborn Relief Network, and the mysterious Royal, but Nigel stopped listening.

"But what about all the people at the Ministry, who never got their hands dirty, but whose orders and actions got innocent people like Cresswell killed or imprisoned?" the former was asking. "What about people like Cecilia Selwyn at the _Daily Prophet_ , who poison the minds of our children with their hatred and intolerance? She's at least as dangerous as any Death Eater. No, they need to go as well. And if they don't want to, we'll force them."

Arguments heard a hundred times, a mind long since made up, no room left for doubt or differing views.

"I would caution against too radical a cleansing," the deep voice of Royal said. "We need to have _something_ left to rebuild our world from. What is the use of a new world if there is no one left to live in it? A strategy of ashes and flames, of death and revenge, is not what we – what _I_ – want. How can we claim to be any better than they are, if we discriminate ourselves, once we are the ones in charge?"

"Bullshit," Nigel snorted and switched the wireless off with a poke of the wand stump. Jacob and Fiona head left. He would join them, now, them and the countless other Wandless of Diagon Alley, in the old storage building, and tell them what he had to tell. The goblins were enraged. His father had taught him a passable Gobbledegook. The _wizards_ would never know what hit them.

He closed the door behind, standing in yard, and shivered. It was cold.

 _The Child_

"Mr. Cuffe. And Miss Selwyn."

A group of wizards was leaving the _Sorcerer's Club_ , a modest building on the far end of Diagon Alley. Timber-framed, the gable set towards the street, like so many of the old houses here, it stood wedged between a coiffeur and the holster-maker. Only a small brass plate next to the door, serving also as a means to beg entrance, gave the tiniest of hints that here was to be found the oldest and most exclusive of the wizard's clubs in Britain.

It needed no further advertisement, resting in comfortable understatement, secure in the knowledge that everyone who needed to know about it already did, and everyone who didn't, did not, and was unlikely to be wanted in any case.

Entrance was gained easy enough but for the need of a sponsor, which was hard to get. Small wonder Cecilia was so excited! At any day, one could be sure to find Britain's best here, political, economical, magical, the vocation was of no concern but for the merits they bestowed, and for her profession as sure as for her own person, she desired a piece of that, ambitious and demanding; beholding Cuffe's interest in her as her key to unlock that door.

And it was of little concern to her that inside, wizards were many and witches few. Entrance was not fundamentally barred, hers now within reach; the times were modern and otherwise holding to the one rule she believed in: what mattered was blood, and nothing else.

The wizards thus exiting and greeting the pair of them were therefore regarded with the special interest of the soon-to-be-possessed: The Head of the Wizengamot Administration Services, apparating away at once, these days perpetually busy, or, more at leisure, the famous Herbologist Tilden Toots, and, the tophat reaching high above his head, Devlin Whitehorn, founder of the Nimbus Racing Broom Company. He was a man of tall appearance, compounded by the choice of his headwear, with lean, almost ascetic features and a nose like a hawk's just above a well-tended goatee, and otherwise the picture of a man of wealth, who liked to display the selfsame. The robes he wore, easily recognisable to Cecilia's trained eye, were custom-tailored imports from Paris, bright and colourful and casual.

He stepped out of the doorway, lingering on the worn step to regard business conducted across the street. A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve, ragged, less than clean but nevertheless whistling gaily, darted back and forth, crosswise down Diagon Alley. His appearance was at clear odds with his presence, more fit for the back alleys where sunlight didn't reach and wasn't wanted, but for the wand in his hand and the black-and-white cap on his head, clean and new and worn with all the pride of being dressed in the finest livery.

This and the armful of posters explained his purpose here, for he was clearly one of the Quidditchboys, quick and energetic young folk, kept by the teams to rally their crowd before a match and prevent the opposing team from doing just that. The demands weren't high, mainly a good Bludgeoning curse was required, and some other basic spells, mostly Charms.

The Falmouth Falcons, she thought, regarding his striped cap, and a semi-final in the European tournament? She thought to recall something of the kind. True enough, the poster he just slammed on a wall read: _Come to Bodmin Moor – See the Falcons hammer the Heidelberg Harriers – 34_ _th_ _EQA tournament series semi-finals._

Mr. Whitehorn tracked his movements and regarded the advertising in clear delight, turning towards her and Cuffe with the expression of one thoroughly satisfied wizard.

"See that, Barnabas? The semi-finals, indeed, indeed. And, of course, all on Nimbus brooms. I would place some good money on their victory. Firebolt got the short end, this time. A thousand Galleons, what say you?"

"That I should be in much surprise to find you putting own gold at risk, as opposed to another man's, so anything but declining would be a fool's errand. It will be no good trying to convince me otherwise, Devlin – take my commendations for the victory your brooms will doubtlessly have. For all I know, you sponsor both teams. But the particulars of what you are talking of are beyond me; as you well know, my interest in sports of any fashion is limited to attempts of reducing the necessity to write about it."

"Don't you read your own paper, Barnabas?" teased Cecilia. "One should think you would, at least for approval's sake, ere you sell it! For I am certain it must have been on the cover the other day. A British team has chances to win the tournament for the first time in thirty years. When the chances for a victory are such, everyone's a fan. A title is a title; and you won't hear anyone say otherwise."

"As it happens, I don't," he remarked in response, tone dry. "Proof-read, that is. Ever since I fell ill once and Mrs. Marchbanks told me afterwards my paper was better when I was not there."

Mr. Whitehorn's eyes followed from his face to hers and back, as the speech went, taking into account her hand on his arm as well as their destination.

"It really is a wonder to find your paper still profitable, considering all the care you seem to grant it – which is to say, rather the lack of it. But do you not want to introduce us?"

Cuffe did so, with the added remark: "She works for me."

Whitehorn drew up a brow.

"And beautiful, too! My compliments, Barnabas. And my most sincere condolences, Miss Selwyn. If you are only half as able as you are enchanting, I'll surely know how he keeps that paper of his."

The good-natured quip, however well-received by its recipient, had Cecilia coming to the latter's defence.

"Oh, don't presume, Mr. Whitehorn! Mr. Cuffe is very attentive, everywhere it matters. He just happens to detest Quidditch."

"I would be certain that you, at least, shall have nothing to complain about in way of attention."

A rosy blush coloured her cheeks while Mr. Whitehorn regarded her up and down. "But I am well-aware Barnabas lacks even the slightest sense for Quidditch, Miss Selwyn. Every other week he writes me, demanding to know it should be possible to turn a profit on something as useless as proletarian entertainment."

"Once, Devlin. That was one time. Though since we are talking about it, how can you possibly turn a profit –"

Cecilia covered her mouth with her hand, laughing.

"Stop, Barnabas, stop. If you start debating this now, we shall never get to eat. Write him another letter. There, Mr. Whitehorn already wants to respond." She lifted her finger playfully. "I shan't stand it. I was promised a lunch, and a lunch I will get. Another time, Mr. Whitehorn, another time. I will say, however, that _I_ am not the least surprised at your latest figures. The sponsorship deals with the European Quidditch Association and the Vasa-Race was a truly inspired move."

"Ha! Did you hear that, Barnabas? Here is someone who understands! I say, Miss Selwyn, could I tempt you to leave the musty parchments and lend your competence to a business like mine? I certainly have need of a secretary with more than air inside her head, these days I hardly get home before midnight."

She shook her head, smiling.

"Hardly competence, sir, I am like all writers – familiar with every topic, and a master in none. I will be well served staying where I am, flattering though the offer is."

"Well! It seems be both are overruled, Barnabas. Your lunch it is – though take my commendations for your beautiful and clever assistant. Despite what she says, I have a feeling she could answer the topic to your satisfaction as well as I could. And as for my thousand galleons, it seems I will have to find someone else to tempt."

He lifted his hat, and was about to move on, when he was bumped into in a most rude manner by the same boy that had been littering the walls with his posters, by now whistling and walking backwards. Instead of an apology, he stared with wide, amazed eyes up at Mr. Whitehorn, who, but in want for the handrail along the stairs of the _Sorcerer's Club_ that he now clung to, would have been bowled over.

"Crikey, sir! A thousand Galleons? Never seen that much in me life. Yer wouldn't have one to spare for me and me mum, would yer?"

The sheer audaciousness had the wizard even forgetting the sharp rebuke he had been about to utter.

"Most certainly not! Do your work like you are supposed to, and you won't have need to ask for other people's money, boy. Now move along. You nearly tripped me up."

The only reaction was a stretched-out tongue. Mr. Whitehorn fingered for his wand, to cuff his ears but good, but the spell missed the boy by lengths, his quick senses prompting him to dart out of reach as quickly as he had come. He was off and about the far side of street again, ere the wizard had but the chance to try again, with better luck.

Mr. Whitehorn shook his head, replacing his wand within his breast pocket. "A warm behind is what he wants. Children these days. – Mr. Cuffe, Ms. Selwyn." Another nod and he left for good.

As soon as he was away, the boy returned, resuming where he left off to plaster his posters all over the walls. Shoddily-cast sticking charms first, then the posters without any regard for neatness or designated places. One at the lamppost, the next on a store window, the other blithely straight across a 'no advertising here'-notice.

His shrill whistles stayed with her, while he was working, clearly to be heard along the entire street. When he saw Cecilia was watching, he changed his tune and started singing out loud.

" _Mudbloods here, Mudbloods there, Mudbloods almost everywhere – filling up the darkest places, evil looks upon their faces …_ "

Cecilia turned up her eyebrow. That one was new. Had he just made it up?

" _Magic's stolen, wands are knocked off, so make sure their hands are cut off …_ "

She had to laugh. Grabbing into her pouch, she took out a coin and flicked it over to the boy, who snatched it deftly out of the air.

"A sickle for your clever little verse, boy."

A grin appeared on his rugged face.

"And many thanks, m'lady."

Whistling the gay tune now, he darted away through the people, running to the next spot to paper with his poster.

 _Mudbloods here, Mudbloods there …_

 _The Misfit_

The _Sorcerer's Club_ was designed to appear plain from the outside, but just as well could the first impression of the interior to be said to adhere to the same standard, should any one curious passer-by have managed to steal a glimpse through open door and veiling charms.

The entrance indeed was as unremarkable as the façade, a narrow hallway that lay beyond the charms, with a single wardrobe door to the right, and double-doors with frosted glass bearing the name of the house, just ahead. There was no decoration, no embellishments; the walls covered with wooden panels with simple flambeaux carrying candles, giving the hall a gloomy shine, and on the floor the famous faded red runner that was said to turn out any unwanted visitor, and be as old as the building – over two hundred years. The porter stood on it, a slim, short figure, he, at least, unlikely to stop even the barely most competent wizard or so Cecilia thought, and yet insurmountable despite; not due to any sort of magical prowess, but to the heavy weight of hundreds of years worth of tradition behind him, expressed by way of his old-fashioned robe, the hat, the gloves. His eyes took in their attire, then their faces, and then a polite smile appeared on his face, as he greeted them: "Good afternoon, Mr. Cuffe. Miss?"

Cecilia was reasonably sure of his recognising her, but as the _Sorcerer's Club_ was for members and their guests only, and as she had not yet been granted the privilege of being the former, the porter would wait to hear Barnabas pronounce her the latter.

"Miss Selwyn is my guest today, Daniel."

She beamed up at him, and the porter bowed, moving just a half-step sideways in the process, not really appearing much different as before by any measure, and yet the doors had just opened.

"Of course. Your cloaks?"

With a touch of his wand, the wardrobe had opened, revealing a single compartment bearing Cuffe's name. While he levitated the thick cloaks over, he remarked: "Fine bit of weather, isn't it, sir? Spring can't seem to let go."

Cuffe made a disagreeable expression.

"One would think it for March, if the calender wasn't telling a different story. And the committee can't seem to decide whether extending the meteolojinxes is too expensive or not. Could be rid of such weather by next week, if only they stopped delaying the decision."

With a complaisant smile, the porter closed the wardrobe again and opened the double door.

"Ah, but then what would we be talking about? Enjoy your stay, sir. Miss Selwyn."

Cecilia stepped past him without another word, and had forgotten all about him moments later. Her attention was captivated by the room in front of her. How exciting this was! And how exciting the magic!

The large, hall-sized dining room that was the heart of the club was sheer overflowing with it. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, things as simple as lights – all of it radiated magic in sheer abundance.

And the tables! While there were certainly some fairly normal of their kind, there were enough special ones, showing beyond doubt that it was a Charms master who had founded the club. He was still there, in the portrait on the wall, mounting guard over the comings and goings with stern perseverance, and for as long as he did, nothing would change, nothing would happen in a different manner than the one he had established.

That much tradition was almost overwhelming. She felt his gaze at her back, watching and judging her, serving as a constant reminder of her place; and his silence filled her with pride, as it meant he had not found fault with her.

One corner held an oasis – one complete with green palm trees, water and sand, beneath a brilliantly blue sky, just like one might find it in Africa. Another table was apparently floating weightlessly through the universe; as though through a veil one stepped across a frontier and walked among the stars, the light dimmed and the vast nothingness of space all around; with just tiny lights blinking below. In yet another area, a swamp extended into the sea, the horizon far, the smell of salt drifting over.

And once she had taken a step into any of their directions, the others faded to the back of her consciousness, leaving space only for the one chosen. As far as the corners were considered – and the dining hall seemed to have a great many of them, certainly more than four! – it was not one room, but many, ensuring the themes did not clash, but each became a sole, well-rounded whole. Only from the place with the doors directly at her back did it seem possible to see them all at once. So she spent minutes moving back and forth, sideways and up, to catch a glimpse of all.

Barnabas regarded her antics with a smile.

"Make the most of it, Cecilia, for you will only be able to see it thus once. Once chosen, the hall will fit your table, until you chose another one. To tell the truth, most prefer the simple ones unless on special occasions. Elliot Smethwyck did go a bit overboard. Having swamp flies in your dinner is not quite as entertaining as it sounds."

He took her arm, which she left him gladly, the happy glow afresh on her face by this gesture as much as him calling her given name in public, and walked across the hall, past the ordinary tables in the centre.

Some nestled in their own booths, others arranged next to each other in an open space, she found perhaps three quarter of them occupied. Conversation was muted, where it even reached her ear and was not charmed; she recognised most people, knowing them by name at least, but Barnabas made no move to greet any of them, so she did not either.

It was not until they had crossed half the room and nearly reached the steward that more than nods were exchanged. At one of the centre tables, to their left, two men took their lunch; one a tall, fierce fellow, the other round and bespectacled.

It took her a second to put a name to that face, all the while the first was easy. Quentin Brown made it his questionable purpose to be known these days, and had he better kept silent indeed!, but the other … why, yes, that had to be Damocles Belby, inventor of the Wolfsbane potion, that was having lunch with him here.

As they were passing, the two wizards looked up. Belby received her with a frown, unsure as of yet of name and face, but Brown's, she was watching sharply, showed clear recognition, then a dark cloud of anger, to finally settle on a look of haughty disdain.

"You-Know-Who's mouthpiece in the _Sorcerer's Club_. I was aware of standards having become woefully low, but I did not believe it was quite _that_ far."

This was such a shocking announcement that Cecilia stilled and felt quite unable to react for a full ten seconds. Only by way of her growing indignation did she feel capable to respond, and then she did so with all the fervour one could expect of someone who had just been mortified.

"Sir, I beg forbearance. I am certain I must have misheard."

"Of course, Miss Selwyn; I apologise. It was not my intention to speak so softly." He cleared his throat and raised his voice. "I meant to say that under no circumstances was You-Know-Who's resident poison pen to be admitted in this establishment."

The silverware ceased to clink, and the hush that fell over the entire room spoke clearly enough as to the range across which his voice had carried.

Into the spreading silence, Brown continued to carve up his meat zealously. Belby stared at him for a second, clearly – and who would blame him? – wishing himself far away, darting her nervous glances.

"Keep your voice down, Quentin, I urge you –"

"You cannot tell me you desire her being around, Damocles, and watch her behaving as no proper witch ought to behave. And while her thoughts are surely worse than her presence, at least one can have the former without the latter. Her company inevitably inflicts both upon the the wizard unfortunate enough to end up in the selfsame. I fear for my sanity, should I have to endure another tale of how our magic was stolen. The silliness of it all would make me go quite mad, I'm sure." He made to raise the fork to his mouth, but paused, and lowered it again, taking in Cuffe. "And that you, Barnabas, should keep the company of the likes of her, that you should even drag her here, it has been noted. If you want to do a man a favour, leave; your point has been made, I assure you."

As evenly as she could, she replied: "I cannot conceal my dismay at hearing those words. In fact, I must convey my surprise at your audacity. Considering the actions of your daughter at Hogwarts, one should think you would not dare to show your face in public as you have done now and before, much less address me in such manner and speak to me of how proper witches ought to behave. Traitors are committed to the Veil, student or no; you know this, Mr. Brown. Busy enough it has been already. One more or less makes hardly for a difference."

The silence now was even more pronounce than the one before; and Cecilia regarded it with satisfaction. Brown, however, threw the napkin onto the table.

"I believe my appetite just disappeared. Steward, my wand." And to his luncheon partner he said, by way of leave-taking: "I shall return in better times. Once this madness is over, even this stain will fade, although, by every measure, it has to be worst this august halls have had to endure."

While the steward came forward with a small, velvety cushion upon which a wand rested, Cecilia tracked his movements in indignant disbelieve.

"I wonder that you should even have been born a pureblood, Mr. Brown," she said scathingly. "You are more fit for a Mudblood. What a disgrace!"

 _The Pureblood_

The atmosphere in his wake was uneasy and restless, although Cecilia did not feel it as such. She was busy in her mind going over the impossibility of what just had happened.

Barnabas nodded to the steward. "A private room, I suppose."

"Quite, Mr. Cuffe, gladly. The Ravenclaw Room, if you would follow me …"

The steward put on a relived expression, almost tripping over himself in his haste to show them out of this and into a separate room, Cecilia thought, scornful. What a deplorable display – what impertinence, too, that someone as reactionist as Brown should be allowed in here! A rebuke was the least one could have expected; expelling him rather, if he had not left himself.

She hardly noticed the beauty of the room. All but careless she regarded the thick Axminster carpet that was hushing her steps athwart the room, the fine silver flambeaux on the table, the heavy bronze chandelier above; fitting the Ravenclaw theme in union with the blue damask at the walls. As soon as the doors has closed Cecilia threw herself onto the chesterfield, staring at the ceiling.

"You did not say a word."

She tried hard to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She resolved not to look at him until she was certain to at least regain control of her features, lest even more of it would show, but she felt certain he should have noticed already.

"My intervention was hardly needed. You were doing fine."

"I can take care of myself. It was not I who needed defending then! He impeached the entire progressive cause. Don't you believe in it? Do you think so little of it that you cannot muster the words to speak in its defence?"

"I believe in you."

"Don't tease me, Barny." She turned around after all, lifted her head, bracing her chin with her hand. "I shan't be able to bear it if you do. I am quite serious – do you not agree with our aims, our ideals? For I can hardly construe your silence to his shocking words to mean anything else."

"My status as a pureblood would hardly permit anything besides," replied he. "Disagreeing with what was to be to my own advantage would make me a fool of Quentin Brown's extent. I am not that, I assure you. And I let you write about it to your heart's content, don't I?"

"It doesn't answer my question."

A sigh left his lips as he took a seat at the table. Cecilia wondered that he should be so reluctant to reply. Of course he would believe in it – it was an impossible situation if he didn't. Yet why not speak up, then?

He folded his hands above the table plate, and regarded her.

"Do not expect a scholar's insight from me, Cecilia. I'm not clever enough by any means to rival our prime thinkers, but I am, quite frankly, too clever by half to acquiesce to everything everyone says from sunrise to sundown. The Ministry tells me Mudbloods steal our magic. If, on the other hand, I were to have listened to Dumbledore before he died, he would have had me believe they were just like us –"

"Bloodtraitors!"

"Yes, quite. My point is thus: Times change, and then they change again. I am a wizard of practical disposition, Cecilia, I like whatever suits me the most, and disputes that can safely be called academic mean little to me either way. And, admittedly, I sometimes fail to see the solemn importance put upon such matters. What does the how and the why matter, as long as the outcome is fine?"

"Academic?" cried she. "But this is incomprehensible! You support the progressive agenda! You were at the Convent! The centuries old question of how Mudbloods became magical – we found the answer! The issue is at the heart of our entire agenda, it is cause and reason for everything we do! How _can_ you ask where the importance is?"

"It promotes the likes of myself. Why wouldn't I support it?"

"I don't understand you, Barnabas."

A slightly mocking smile appeared in the corners of his mouth, as he rose and turned to ring for dinner.

"Does this inability compromise your ability to write for me or dine with me?"

"Certainly not! – yet I cannot conceal a certain dissatisfaction."

She was silent for a moment, beholding him as he stood, insouciant, in the room, waiting for the steward to arrive.

"Why do you even let me write, if you do not believe a word of it?"

"I never said the like. I said I were not sure – and that I wouldn't particularly care."

" _About_ the answer, or to _know_ the answer?"

Her only answer was a smile, and ere she could demand further explanations, the steward entered and took their orders. When he had left again, and Barnabas seated himself again, she made to repeat her question, but he preempted her and said: "Clever girl. You must see now why I'm partial to you. You're sharp, you have a way with words, and I admire your zeal. So have this answer then – ask me what I _do_ care about."

"So what is it?"

Comfortably leant back, he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and replied: "This. Selling my paper. Earning money – a lot of money. Wielding a certain influence in places that matter. Living a comfortable life, without the hassle and bother of too many people's poking noses. Whatever is therein expedient is what is expedient to me. And you are very helpful with that indeed."

"So in truth, you believe in nothing and care about nothing – nothing that extends beyond yourself and the prospects of the paper. And my presence here is merely another means to that end, as Brown said."

Another fine smile shone on his face.

"Have I disappointed you? I'll confide to you a secret. What is for the good of me and my paper is in the surprising habit of aligning itself with the selfsame of the general populace. And so, we return to what I said at the start. For what does intention matter when compared to outcome? In any one cause, there are those with hot hearts, easily inflamed and just as easily doused. And then there are the like of me. I shan't rate one higher than the other, there are merits in both; but at any event, my type will be the most reliable allies you can find – for nothing else than on account of me living comfortably and having no desire to change what is to my own advantage."

"Hm."

Her monosyllabic answer was as much expression of her displeasure as of her inability to truly fault him for it. He remained silent for a while, before he asked: "Did you ever wonder what would happen if You-Know-Who was defeated?"

" _What?_ "

Now she was truly upset.

"That is treason, Cuffe. I cannot believe to hear those words from you; you must concede to me the favour of an explanation."

"Not treason, however very much an exercise in caution," observed he. "And born from the very desire I just described. You-Know-Who is strong, but even the strongest may fall. The most powerful wizards will create the most powerful enemies. May be he is the exception. May be he is to rule for another hundred years. But perhaps he is just another wizard, and in that case, we have to separate his government from his person, lest the changes he wrought, the ones in whose defence you so ardently spoke, disappear again just as quickly when he leaves."

"The changes," she said, sitting up straight, her anger forgotten. "Keeping his changes alive? And what is this – a plot – and you? You – !"

"My dear Cecilia! I should hope you not as fanciful as that. All I like is to be in the know, a want hardly surprising for a newsman, and you will not hear a word to the contrary."

His response left her in some confusion, when she found it impossible to reconcile with his expression the words he spoke, and, on the assumption that the former was to be regarded as being of greater significance than the latter, to reconcile with his earlier words the intention to protect the progressive cause; and she expressed her bemusement moments later.

"But – but why? When just now you admitted that you do not care?"

"I told you. I am partial to life as it currently is; I desire no change in it."

There was a knock on the door; lunch had arrived. While another stewart arranged plates, silverware, pans and pots with skilled, elegant flicks of his wand, she found time to think and re-arrange herself with the new knowledge and eventually found herself at peace. Barnabas would never see it quite as she did, but he would help her furthering her view. She could live with that.

"So no change? Nothing – whatever?" she asked slowly, when they were alone once more. Her nails traced the outline of her goblet idly, while she glanced at him from under her long lashes, taking in his by now familiar, slightly mocking smile, this time reserved for the same topic that had carried them here, and knew the answer before ever he responded.

Time, indeed, to move on to other topics.

 _The Muggle_

Old Barry Caldwell had lived in Lancashire for his entire life. The modern times had crept into this spot of land like they had everywhere else; the busy trunk road ran through the countryside only a few miles away, and on the edge of the Pennies on the other side of the hill were the old industrial cities, which had darkened the sky with their chimneys already for years and years when he had been young. And yet, in this corner, in his small house, sometimes it felt like the time had stopped, though he never could quite say why.

He had heard the old tales, and _everyone_ knew the story of the Pendle witches, of course, but that did not account for the feeling he sometimes got when he took a walk … but ah, he hadn't taken a walk in years.

Still, it had gotten worse this year. Or maybe it was the age.

He pushed himself out of the chair with a groan, shuffling over to the stove where the soup was bubbling and ready for at least thirty minutes. And Maggie still wasn't home.

He stirred the pot, and then moved slowly to the window, staring out into the evening. The sun had gone down, the thick clouds had sent night falling right after. Down the fields, the dark shadow of Pendle Hill towered over the land, resting like a stranded whale in the otherwise fairly flat area, bald and treeless. He had always thought it gave the hill something obscene, as though it was somehow naked.

A sudden light caught his eye. He started into darkness, trying to pinpoint the direction. His legs were nearly useless nowadays but his eyes were as good as they had been fifty years ago. There was no mistake possible.

A succession of glowing dots was moving over Downham Moor, towards the steep slope of the hill, a chain of silent, forbidding pinpricks of light, inspiring an unknown, nameless terror in his heart. Suddenly, a howling scream cut through the night and made his blood run cold. Barry Caldwell slammed the window shut, closed the lockers on the inside and hid in the darkest corner of the house.

Maggie did not return.

* * *

 _If you liked it, or hated it, leave a comment!_


	2. A Beautiful World

_Thanks to the Dark Lord Potter Forums and especially addictedforlife for beta work. It's better for your help._

* * *

 **Part B: A Beautiful World**

 _The Stake_

The torches leading up to the wide, open space on the summit blazed to life, forming a lit path, through which _they_ would enter the circle. While the former was narrow, the latter was wide, mayhap as much as a good hundred yards; a thousand wizards and witches from all over Europe gathered here atop the hill, standing along the edge of the circular place, hands locked together, awaiting the beginning of Walpurgis on this first of May.

All across the land, there would be similar gatherings now, smaller ones, for wizards and witches, or even for halfbloods, at least for those of them that cared about the old holidays; but this, _this_ was _the_ Walpurgis Night. The one night where wizards and witches came together from all over Europe and met; celebrating magic and life and remembering their ancestors.

The Minister was here, and the Cuffes, and the Parkinsons, who would later be hosting the ball down in their manor of Ravensholme, and a couple of dozen others, like the MacMillans and the Malfoys – although Lucius Malfoy was noticeably missing –, but the large, vast majority, were foreign – foreign, but certainly not unknown.

Cecilia had found her place at the western side, next to her uncle, her father's brother who had recently gained a prestigious spot on the Hogwarts' board of governors, and she recognised more wizards and witches than even she could name: that was Doña Mendoza, certainly, still with her black veil, since her husband had passed away just five months ago, and slightly to her left, Johan Rytter, the Norwegian aristocrat, looking outrageously good with his wavy blond hair and the blue eyes that flashed through the night, but that – that remarkably tall form nearly across from her – who should that be, perhaps the German chancellor with his wife, Von Eichengruen?

She strained her eyes to see more, and like that, it went on – from every community on the continent, there were a handful of families, faces she at last could not see any more in the ever-darkening night but names she knew would be there – the clan of the Borgias, the Transylvanian ruler Báthory, a few other Ministers of places where old names still meant influence, the de Lapins and the Zamojskis and so many more. They were the leading families in Europe, for naturally, the official Walpurgis was for the most important only, and she was bursting in pride to be a part of it. When she had perceived of her uncle's invitation, and that he was to bring someone, she had spent the entire month leading up to the event begging for his favour, and the elation upon having her wish granted was not to be put in words.

She smiled into the darkness. The sky was black and stormy above her, just the right weather; clouds had gathered during the afternoon, hiding the moon and the stars, pushed over the hill by the same unpleasant north wind that had swept through Diagon Alley this morning. It had taken no strong effort to cast the meteolojinxes that thickened the clouds to the desired size.

The lands below were dark as well, although the Muggle cities blinked like overgrown firebugs, and suddenly, on the hillside, lights appeared as well; a chain of glowing dots, like pearls on a string, slowly moving towards the top, winding its way along the sharply serpentine path like a long, living whole.

Soon, they were near enough to make out details. The flickering lights became torches and revealed thirteen robed figures that entered the lit path at the summit, the torched in the left hand, the wand in the other. Silver masks obscured their faces and gave them a daunting appearance, a well-calculated aura of forbidding lifelessness, intended to strike fear into the hearts of common people.

Cecilia shivered as one look from the empty silver holes brushed her, but it was excitement, not fear. Orange fire flickered, reflected on their masks, coating the burnished metal with a dull, angry sheen, just like their amour would have shone, once, in face of the fires of their enemies.

"The Knights of Walpurgis," she whispered, awed.

Of course she knew that it weren't the actual Knights – they were long gone, after all – and only a re-enactment of this band of wizards that had protected wizards and witches from Muggles more than three hundred years ago, but it did nothing to quell her tense anticipation, and her joyfully lifted heart, to be part of a tribute to such important a part of their collective history.

The silent cortege moved into the circle, their wands pointed skywards. A dark, lumpy shape was floating above their heads, spinning slowly in circles. Cecilia strained her eyes to make out further details, and a sudden, quivering, half-muffled cry escaped her. Her entire being was strung taut in excited approval, for they had, they would, they were going to …! For the first time after nearly a hundred years! A re-enactment of the _entire_ history of the Knights! For the dark shape, it could be no different, was a Muggle.

Clearly she – for it was a woman – was silenced, had realised what was to happen with her; was straining against the spells, oh, how vainly! No match was a Muggle for a wizard, the superiority assured, proven by trial, never would she get the chance to express the maledictions that fell from her lips. Revenge, they same revenge the Knights had wrought on the Muggles, was near.

The ring of wizards and witches closed behind the Knights, accepting them into their midst, and they, in turn, occupied their intended places on either side of the stake around which everyone was gathered, seven to the left, six to the right, standing there unmoving in silent vigil.

The Minister stepped thereafter forward, at a measured step, slow and dignified. He waited for in instant. Then he began to speak.

"Wizards and witches! Tonight marks the three-hundred and ninth anniversary of the Statute of Secrecy, and just a three-hundred years has past, since the last of us left behind the world of the Muggles. A date which, in want for any other outstanding turning point in history, safe, perhaps, the founding of Hogwarts, as the first of all magical schools, or the defeat of the Goblins at Hogsmeade, might as well be called the founding date of this our world; and if one were to search for a place of similar importance, this bleak hilltop would surely rank among the first as well.

"It seems fitting, therefore – and I am very thankful to be the one to be given this opportunity – that tonight we convene here – here, were we suffered the greatest loss and experienced the highest triumph. This is the place that saw the tragedy of two feuding families burning by the hand of Muggles, and this is the place that saw the rise of those that would lead us out of the darkness.

"It was in great error of judgement that my predecessors held as unimportant this history, indeed, turned into one act of formal bureaucracy what once was the most important aspect our world: The annual breaking and re-signing of the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy on this date; the assurance that a measure was enacted of a wizard's own volition, that it could and would be broken at will, that everyone was to convene, and decide to sign it anew.

"And alongside it, as the other side of the same coin without which the Statute would be but an empty shell, a mere few lines on paper, we once remembered that it was in battle hard won: That brave wizards and witches gave their lives for ours, that we stood here only because of those who came before.

"Bear with me, therefore, for a short while and a walk along the winding paths that lead from the murky depths of the bygone years to the present, here, and today, where both endings are closer than usual, the veil of time thinned and mayhap ready to part for a blink of an eye."

Long since had Cecilia forgotten everything around her. She was part of a single whole, the words like gossamer to connect the pieces of them, finest thread to weave a spell to bind them all, conjure misty images of times long past … she saw shadows of brave silver knights, heard shouts and laughter, fading and resounding, around the bald hill, just beyond the edge of the circle, beyond the edge of her thoughts, as the tale went on.

"Three hundred years ago, when it was not at all certain that there even would be wizards and witches in future days to come – for we were weak and scattered! – many a wizard could nevertheless not bear the thought of hiding, grieved and appalled in his heart at the blemish of a cowardly retreat this act would surely carry, a flight from a foe that ought to have nought on wizards. And thus, every wizard and every witch fought on their own, fought each other, even, over what was to be the right path to choose, and divided, we fell before the Muggles.

"And might be it would have continued that way but for a band of wizards that rose, sworn to death to help each other and every wizard and witch that would call for them in need. Fighting when the Kings would not let us go, saving innocent witches all over the continent, all over the land, even in this parish, from the clutches of their henchmen when they hunted us, they protected us and helped us carve out what was to be a destiny of our own. Here at this very place they met, to swear their oath, and to this place they returned, whenever a battle had been fought.

"And to remind everyone of where the true power lay, they turned the very manner the Muggles sought to vanquish us with against them, and it were their own that burned. And years after, in their tradition and as a reminder of the past, wizards took it upon themselves to hold symbolic Muggle burnings in the place that had seen the first of the Knights of Walpurgis.

"It was expression of our superiority, of our victory, a symbolic – but oh, how strong and expressive! – assurance that we acted of our own will, to do what was the best for our own. It was no flight in fear. We _took_ from the Muggles what was to be ours. And that makes all the difference in the world."

A well-measured, solemn pause held everyone to dwell on the words just heard, before coming to its conclusion: "This day, this celebration, is part of that assurance. It should not be scorned, it should not be forgotten, for it is part of our history, of who we are, and should therefore be remembered: the struggle, the sacrifice, the victory."

And as though with a rousing cheer, it gripped Cecilia and everyone, sounded like a triumphant call across lands wide and far, words unknown but in her heart of hearts, shaped silently by her lips and everyone's: "So tonight, times have changed once more. Tonight, we return to tradition and history, claim what was, what is and will be ours, meet again where past and present convene. Tonight, we honour the brave wizards that fought for our future, like our forefathers did before us. Tonight, we break the Statute and sign it , we remind the world that we still exist. Tonight is our night!"

As in a dream, she saw him step back into the circle and raise his wand. Like a wave spreading left and right, the gesture ran through the circle until it met at the opposing end, passing her before ever she had conceived having moved. A thousand wizards and witches stood, with their right arm, the wand arm, stretched out to the dark night sky; before they lowered it as one and engulfed the the circle, the wood, the pike and the Muggle in flames.

 _The Dream_

Her first step into Ravensholme was hesitant. Not because Cecilia was intimidated by the old, expansive building; it was more a silent acknowledgement of what she was about to do. This step was so much more – a step into a new realm, a step up to the top, a step onwards, towards her goal, and she felt she ought to hesitate on the threshold and be conscious of her doings, reflect on the path that brought her here, and savour the moment that was the result of her constant hard work over the last year.

And so she placed her small foot into the golden glow streaming out of the manor's great centre portal, twice as high as herself, and paused, listening to the murmur and excited laughter of the wizards and witches passing her by, and allowed herself a quick, small smile. She was now one of them.

 _The Promise_

Ravensholme was a special place. She felt it clearly; like a synonym for all she ever wanted, her dearest dream and the highest promise, it stood tall and proud, in grand, opulent splendour; with the light of a thousand candles reflected in the hall's gleaming gold ceiling, with precious marble, with many, many ornaments – a defiant baroque, when the rest of the world had long since moved on to other epochs, abandoning this wonderful show of triumphant power and control for more modest, less costlier styles.

Not this, though, and not wizards. Cecilia stared up towards dome in the centre, painted with scenes from Hogwarts' founding, couldn't look her fill of the wide, elegant staircase, wildly loved the marble columns with their stuccoed capital, flaring out broadly in dramatic arches.

This – _this_ – had been her yearning, when she had not even known what it was she was looking for.

This was her place. This was where she belonged; – to places matching her beauty, reflecting it, transcending, _perfecting_ it, in all that was around her: with imperious, arched browns and graciously swooping lines of features mirrored in columns and spires and vaultings –; at the side of tall, handsome wizards and witches in their finery, each assured of his own worth, populating the marble staircase, gliding through the golden hall; among the first people of the country, with all avenues open, hers only to lose.

The realisation spread through her, filling her from head to toe; warmly, like sitting in front of a cosy fire. She had finally arrived.

She moved through the wizards and witches, enjoying the way her gown swished this way and that. The garment had a low back, proudly displaying her Marking. It was chestnut leaf, about the size of her palm, resting between her shoulder blades and gleaming mysteriously inky-wet in the light of the chandeliers.

Her parents had told her how proud they had been, when the spell had been performed over her after her birth and her magic had formed the tattoo immediately, announcing her a witch to the world. Back then, only few had still done the old ways. Now, like so many other pureblood rites, it was in vogue again, the latest fashion. Some even went so far as to fake them! Luckily that became forbidden quickly, after a thoroughly disgusting squib-woman had tried to pass herself off as a witch that way.

Her Marking, however, was real. She liked it. Some were rather horrible, but she was lucky enough. Chestnut leaves symbolised luxury in the old lore, and that suited her just fine.

She smiled, in the middle of the wide hall, simply because she couldn't help it; brushed her short hair behind her ear, glad she had taken the time to visit the haircharmer. It was now slightly longer – just a bit, she still preferred it short – and arranged in a straight middle-parting. Brushing it back made the tiny, clear diamonds on the goblin-silver earrings Barnabas had given her sparkle prettily, which was another advantage of this haircut. She made sure they always were noticeable.

Idly, she scanned the hall for faces she knew, before she picked the direction of the sweeping staircases. She wanted to talk to the Minister, whom she had been introduced to only last week after a note of regard bearing her name had reached the _Daily Prophet_.

Marching straight through the milling people, however, soon became an end in itself. So many people recognised her and regarded her! She was handsome enough and well she knew it, delighting in the looks of admiration they could not help bestow on her and taking satisfaction even from glances of the lowest servant, thus gliding through the wizards and witches, shaking hands and greeting people she had never met, taken by the heady atmosphere, intoxicated by her own feelings, by the fame and praise.

And she let herself drift away; let the soft melodies of the strings and the high, brilliant notes of the harpsichord wash over her, joined in the laughter as bubbling as the clear champagne in her glass. This was the life.

She was returned to earth by a most courteous cough to her left.

With the hint of a frown, she turned her head, and considered the liveried butler standing on her side with a silver tray. It was hoovering a few inches above the upturned palm of his hand, just like the ones from which she had taken the champagne, however, this one lacked all glassware and instead carried a once-folded sheet.

Sparkling prettily, it rose towards her hand when she extended it towards the tray, leaving no doubt as to what she was to do, and with a bow, the waiter left her, when her fingers unfolded the note and she started to read.

In dismay, afterwards, she stared at the content. _Your presence most willingly desired. Yours, Mathilda Parkinson._

Her eyes moved from the parchment to a certain place across the room after far too long a while. Near the staircase, grouped around a suite of furniture, stood a group of people she, for once, knew very well. Comprised out of the female half of England's oldest and most notable pureblood families, she found among them Elizabeth Rosier, Gladys Gladrags, Narcissa Malfoy, Dorea Fawley, and Dalmatia Cuffe.

Not that she disliked speaking to them – oh, not that, not ever that! – how could she? They were the most influential families, they were rich and successful and everything wonderful she aspired to be. But still, they _were_ all that, and so how much depended on this meeting! This was her début; that she should be shown around was courteous, and that she should be introduced, indispensable; for one most certainly could not walk up to just anyone. Their first impressions would shape large parts of her future, and so the properties must be most diligently observed; and thus Mrs. Parkinson's request was perfectly right and proper, however, if she was to be completely sincere with herself, she had hoped to have a little more time to compose herself, and approach them on her terms.

Naturally, this was out of the question now. She must at once attend them. And mayhap it was just as well; for _they_ had taken notice of _her_ , which was better than any reference she could have mustered.

And so she pushed away the small amount of trepidation, squared her shoulders, and slowly walked over. She took care to measure her steps so as to avoid giving the impression of precipitance with too hasty an approach, which could be construed as excessive eagerness, and decided not to hide her self-assurance behind a false modesty in manners when dealing with them.

She was what she was; she knew what she had, what she was capable of, and she saw no need to appear less than any of that. Diffidence was certainly not a trait to describe her with; rather, over time, some had been prompted to go as far as to call her arrogant or even conceited. But she had never spared half a moment to listen to those voices, finding them to not be worth her time, indeed, to be quite obscene, for only a thoroughly corrupted wizard could think of hiding what was gifted to him by the grace of the eternal magic, instead of taking pride in it and rejoicing.–

Mathilda Parkinson beamed at her, as she her approached the group.

"The witch of the hour! Do come over, dear. Let me introduce you to my friends."

Cecilia admired her heavy, splendid robes, which must have cost a small fortune. Made to measure, surely, for how else would they assort so well with the grand salon? The style was not identical, but fitting; flower motifs embroidered on the dress' wonderful silk damask in precious gold brocade patterns, mirroring the décor; in little ways inferior, say, to the wonderful small sofa she was rising from.

A thousand and five hundred Galleons, thought Cecilia with a critical eye, observing the old-fashioned, wide skirt with its generous folds and pleats, demanding lots and lots of the fine cloth, and a clear Gladrags design, for one went to Gladrags precisely for those old, traditional dresses – so one thousand and five hundred, but only if that was not real Acromantula silk. She rather suspected the contrary. Twice the amount, then – and thus certainly nearing the value of the furniture beneath her. The gold finish on its delicately ornate wooden legs blinked in the light of the candlesticks; and she would not have been at all surprised had she been told that the pieces of furniture were indeed three hundred year old originals and virtually priceless. Never had she never seen any thing like it outside of pictures.

But, Cecilia thought again, her hostess were sure to be able to afford things like those with ease, because the Parkinsons must receive at least a hundred thousand a year. Ravensholme, when they had inherited, was said to contain property to the amount of over two million Galleons. She certainly should not be in want for many a thing. Beauty, as commonly understood, perhaps; for all that money and magic could purchase, it never truly had been that, and Mathilda Parkinson had never been graced by the naturally favourable appearance quite as the other witches had, unlike the Mudbloods; underneath the piled-up curls of black hair, she lacked the fine countenance and the delicate figure, but she did have a very pleasing address, which, when added to her wealth as the last scion of her family, had been more than enough to secure her such a prestigious marriage.

There were more desirable wizards than Gyles Parkinson, in terms of pure pecuniary considerations, of course – Lucius Malfoy was a man of large property already when he had been twenty, and, after the death of Abraxas, had inherited the rest of the profitable Wiltshire lands that granted him nearly half a million annually. The marriage with the youngest Black – Narcissa, indeed, she was sitting there, next to Mathilda! – before their woeful decline at the hands of their enemies, had been the perfect match, and one out of love at that. Yet money was not all, and above a certain amount, which she for herself always had decreed to be at just those one hundred thousand Galleons per year, it ceased to matter as much as did below the one. Mathilda had done very well for herself, at any event; an example surely worth following.

She had risen now, and even condescended to take a step towards Cecilia so as to meet her on the way, an honour bestowed that Cecilia certainly took notice of; and so she experienced the affability herself immediately that everyone acknowledged Mathilda Parkinson to possess, and was presented in the most warm manner imaginable: "My dear friends, this is Cecilia Selwyn. Possibly, you won't know her face, but her words all the more for that! She is the witch behind the pen of those delightful columns we enjoyed this year." And to the so introduced – "Cecilia, these are my dear friends."

She proceeded then to name her companions in diligent perseverance, following the rules as was to be expected in cases such as these – to which Cecilia knowing all of the names already, and, indeed, having met Gladys Gladrags, was of no matter, naturally – and concluded with a warm thank-you for her attendance.

Cecilia curtseyed and replied in kind.

"I thank you kindly for the invitation, Mrs. Parkinson."

"Oh, nonsense, my dear, you call me Mathilda. And of course we would have you. Did not Barnabas sponsor you? I seem to remember him begging most urgently for your attendance."

Politeness dictated more words of thanks, yet, in looking at Dalmatia Cuffe, she could not help thinking the opening too great to pass up, and it took her little effort to contrive of a remark that was both courteous enough and would inconvenience the older witch.

"Indeed, Mathilda," said she, "and I am ever so grateful, to you as well as to him – but of course, we have _such_ a great relationship at the Daily Prophet, working together every day;– it was not wholly unexpected, if I may say so."

The deepest blush spread over Dalmatia Cuffe's cheeks, and the looks of vexation gave Cecilia cause to turn away and smile. Before Dalmatia could retort, however, Mathilda Parkinson spoke on.

"Which truly I do believe without question. Did you see how everyone wanted a piece of her? I'm as happy as anything you arrived as a whole, Cecilia."

"She would hardly allow them to deprive you of the entire her, such as it is," replied Mrs. Cuffe, her dark eyes like lances towards Cecilia. "Her vanity, if nothing else, should have found it unbearable." It was not certain Mathilda Parkinson had grasped quite yet the nature of their remarks, for she responded at face value.

"I should hope not!" cried she. "Tease me if you will, Dalmatia, but I have every reason to expect the best of her, and pride is the smallest of all flaws. Doubly so if there is legitimate cause for it. You should have seen her reply, Gladys – the script was just lovely, the most elegant writing charm you can imagine, simply exquisite."

Gladys Gladrags glanced at Cecilia and, rather cool, replied: "I shouldn't doubt that, given her line of … _work_. Though at any event there is more to being a witch than possessing a tidy writing charm."

"A sure part of it nonetheless! And I should think a rather large one at that. For what is any young witch without the elegance and distinction of charmwork befitting one such as herself?" And to Cecilia, she added warmly: "The hint of apricot is a wonderful touch, Cecilia. It reminded me of our orchard, I love to take the afternoon tea there, whenever the weather is fair. And the magic's all in the letters, is it not? It's your own writing charm. I'm sure you must be proud of it."

Cecilia inclined her head modestly.

"I'm flattered you should think so. Working on my style it is a favourite pastime of mine. I always charm my quills myself; it makes writing letters a great deal more personal, in my opinion."

"That is the way it should be. I highly disapprove of those awful pre-charmed quills. No soul, no life. Why, I just said Elizabeth the other day, I'd rather someone send me a letter lacking any magic whatever than one borrowed – yes, stolen, even – for is not writing letters with someone else's magic just that? Stealing magic is the greatest sin, and using borrowed magic to adorn oneself with borrowed plumes its slightly lesser cousin."

The ensuing pause after that concluding remark Cecilia used to sort her thoughts.

Mathilda was very courteous towards her, but as the hostess, she ought to be. Narcissa was reserved, the old Rosier appeared slightly bored, Dorea said nothing whatever, and Gladys and Dalmatia – well, she had just experienced _their_ appreciation of her. A lot of work still ahead of her, then, but that was to be expected and could not be avoided.

Into her musings, another message was delivered, this time for Mathilda; and, with a look of deep regret and bale, reserved for whoever was unlucky enough to have caused her ire, she informed them of her need to excuse herself for a time to attend to a matter of dishes in the kitchens.

Cecilia watched her go with little joy, leaving them wondering as to the true reasons for her abrupt departure. Inconceivable, it seemed, that a witch of her standing – a witch who, in possession of the not insubstantial funds needed for kitchen aid, had gone to the lengths to employ the selfsame to spare her and her guests the need to deal with elves at all by way of servants – should venture into the kitchens that were just the one's expressive dominion, and upon such mundane, menial a problem as to clear up a confusion over two dishes too.

It fled her mind soon, however, in the apparent shift of mood the moment Mathilda had forsaken the group. From inconsequential pleasantness it changed to something more akin to a cage full of predators, tense and dangerous. No one seemed inclined to carry on the conversation either, and she well recognised the implied rejection of her presence.

It was hardly surprising with Mrs. Cuffe, and in truth, her approval was of little concern to Cecilia; but ever since she had met Gladys, she had desired the older witch's favour, who, in addition to being the most economically influential, also appeared to hold the most sway within the group. Given the cold looks as well as the reserved manner, that might prove to be a rather daunting task, but she had never shied from a challenge.

She held out until they seemed in danger of sinking into total silence and it became an absolute necessity to think of something; and, in the emergence recollection of _where_ she had met Gladys before, she observed: "You seemed well content when we met in Paris. I hope your business went to your satisfaction after we parted?"

"Yes, indeed, thank you very much."

After a short pause, when she found she was to receive no other answer, she added: "I was fortunate enough to have occasion to meet Gideon Goshawk afterwards. He was there in preparation of the International Conference on Charms, and we had a most pleasant walk in the Parke d'Amelie. He truly is as charming and knowledgeable as everyone says."

Silence was her only response. Gladys regarded her with a look of cold disdain, but then she turned away.

Cecilia raised a brow by a fraction of a hair, more astonished then offended. Being taciturn in conversation might have been vexing, but not impolite; however, purposefully ignoring an introduced guest was more than she would have expected Gladys to be able to reconcile with her own pride. It cast a mark on her, as surely so as on Cecilia.

She gave up the pretences of ignoring Gladys' shameful behaviour, directly addressing her, so she had no manner of evading answer, demanding explanations. Ostentatious, as though she had entirely forgotten her presence and was surprised she was still there, the witch turned around.

"Tell me, girl, for how many generations have the Selwyns been pure-bloods?"

And so she understood the reason for Gladys' irascible manner.

"For at least three generations, Gladys," replied she, her tone now icy, "as you know very well, for you made sure to point out such in much detail when Uncle Geoffrey was appointed to the board. You also were rebuked. We have nothing at all to be ashamed of."

"Oh!, so I do. I am sorry, I forgot it momentarily – the Selwyns come up in talking so rarely. No one ever seems to care."

Dorea giggled appreciatively. Cecilia blushed in shame and vexation. The giggles and titters, Glady's smirk, expressions of scorn – for her – or faces with clear rejection, and to not even display the decency to lower one's voice as one was insulting her – was this truly everything she was to expect from now on? Was this what she had come for?

For but an instant, she considered leaving. Yet that was what this was, was it not, now and always: a wonderful, golden palace – full of predators. And whether Gladys bore with ill will the fact that her bid for the position at the board of governors of Hogwarts was rejected in favour of Cecilia's uncle, or the fact that the Selwyns lacked the prestige of the oldest families, whether she meant what she said or not, indeed, whether Gladys _liked_ her or not, it was of no significance. To her were given the tools to assert herself, hers the means to exist, not merely among, but above them; and if she turned and left, it would be squandering this gift.

She demanded nothing but such that was hers by right of birth, and nothing anyone said could change that. It was the bedrock of her entire being, a fact so fundamentally true to her that she had never had questioned it, nor felt the need to; a conviction so certain that the reaction to the tide of the revolution carrying her far and putting her down gently on a drift line that was the very edge of the top had not been _Why me?_ but _Just in time_ , and a small secret smile, for it was what needed to happen, and so it did happen.

And like it had helped her then, so it would now, or so believed she; and did not even fault Gladys for her behaviour, in ways that implied mortifications of _her_ pride, for it was assumed that it was inconsequential in the long run, and solely reflected badly on Gladys herself. And it did not _matter_ that at this moment, the best she could hope for were the neutral looks, or the idle curiosity about how she was going to react, displayed at Narcissa's face, that no one here would come to her help – oh, she didn't want them to! She was going to _make_ them care, every single one of them; she would show them, all of them, all on her own. That was what being here was all about.

And so she held her head high, drawn up proudly, with a gaze, direct and demanding as queens might have copied, showing to the world every ounce of her unshakable belief: that this was where she belonged, all differing opinions to spite, that she was born with a promise, and the world hers for the taking.

"I told you of her shocking amounts of pride," then remarked Dalmatia Cuffe. "Now look how she speaks to us, how she wears that marking. The sheer pretentiousness must astound anyone. Right as if she were a witch – and a shameless female of a much differing kind she would be rather, trying to get her claws into my husband. I advised Mathilda not to invite all that riff-raff, but unfortunately, it was out of her power."

And with her dark eyes sparking in anger, and no further need to clarify the motive behind it, she turned to Cecilia: "I cannot possibly imagine what he sees in a girl as common as you. I shall have words with him about his tastes."

And just like that, Cecilia's mood lightened instantly. There it was. _This_ was easy. Those fights she had had since she was old enough to be interested in wizards. In her mind, Cecilia rejoiced while she regarded Dalmatia with the sweetest of smiles.

"I see. Jealousy, how unappealing. You really shouldn't wear it, Dalmatia. It's so unflattering. It makes you look _old_."

The smile slipped. Dalmatia's face put on a white colour. She opened her mouth as if to offer a scathing rebuttal, and then thought better of it.

"I need not stand here and listen to such impudence directed towards me, so I shall take my leave."

And with a nod to the other witches, she turned around and retreated with whatever was left of her dignity.

Laughter bubbled up in Cecilia, and she decided not to suppress it. It rang through the silence Dalmatia had left behind, bright and clear as a silver bell, and suddenly, she felt light-hearted again. The sheer ridiculousness of this encounter lifted her up and brightened her mood. Everyone was staring at her, and she could not care less. By Morgane, wasn't it _good_ to be young and pretty? What was there not to be gay and hopeful every single day?

"The Minister is waiting for me," she said lightly and without even looking at Gladys, "he wanted to discuss something I wrote. I suppose I have to excuse myself as well."

She had probably just mortally offended the first witches of the country, and it did not matter, because _they_ did not matter. They were there, but never in her way. For in the end, this, too, was just another version of her office at the _Daily Prophet_ ; and this the time of modern witches such as her, and she good enough to hold her own.

Her inner balance restored, she regarded the group with a certain amount of merriment, cognisant of the shift that yet again had turned the tide of her popularity, just by her reaction to it. From being regarded as unworthy of their time, she now had forced them to consider her, for her impudence, if nothing else! – but that it apparently had done more, even, then just to put herself into their reckoning.

Gladys look was now one of careful alertness, whereas Dorea looked quite lost in attempting to grasp what happened around her. Only Elizabeth Rosier still looked bored and had yet to utter a single word in Cecilia's presence; one wondered that she was even here, and perhaps so did she. On Narcissa's face, however, there now was an amused smile.

"You run along then, Cecilia, and give Pius and Barnabas all my best," said she. "You may tell the latter I see exactly what he means."

"I certainly hope he meant only good things," replied she, eyes sparkling, "but I must confess I was looking forward to meeting your husband as well."

"You won't find him here. He is currently up there."

"Oh!" gasped Cecilia, as her look followed Narcissa's finger pointing to the window and the dark hill yonder, and quickly desired the latter would tell her all about it. To be part of the Knights! What an honour! She quite forgot everything else in her exuberance, and Narcissa humoured her with indulgence, describing finery and masks in much detail, and finally pointing out the secondary purpose of the silent wardens on the hill, which was to ensure the Muggle was safe from harm.

"So they do not really burn?"

"It is as it used to be – a ritual, not an execution. We are above such things."

"Oh," said she with indifference, "well, at any event we shall so be able to employ her again next year. Do you suppose your family shall be granted such honour again?"

Here she was interrupted as the old Rosier finally uttered a laugh ill-disguised as a cough. Upon prompting her, she replied:

"One should never be surprised at the many ways to describe the same occurrence. An honour – yes, I do suppose you may call it that; though I'm by any means sure he would be quite happy down here as well, instead of standing guard over a Muggle with the likes of Crabbe and Goyle, would he not, Cissy?"

The looks exchanged between the two were not of a friendly kind, and Cecilia frowned at the smile that suddenly seemed strained. Was Narcissa not happy to be among the chosen few who could claim to have met _him_ in person, and be among the earliest party members, part of those that would be hand-picked for glorious tasks such as those?

"Cecilia has the right of it," said finally Narcissa. "It's an honour to be chosen. The Malfoys are proud to serve, among the first and most privileged, as is our rightful place."

Prompted by an insisting tugging at her arm, and the declaration carried to her that Cuffe had asked for her, Cecilia finally made her farewells, diligent and with all the courtesy needed, and went with the other girl that had appeared next to her at some point.

"There you are!" Iris Parkinson dragged a by no means unwilling Cecilia away. "Mother told me she had introduced you and sent me to look for you, but I had not thought you would have stayed. Gladys was horrible, I'm sure I cannot _think_ how you stood it."

Cecilia smiled at her old Hogwarts friend, and walked further down the hall. "It was fair. Though I confess I was going to leave when you arrived. Did Barnabas really ask after me?"

"Well, no. But I am certain he should be happy to see you, as opposed to Dalmatia, who was there in yonder corner doing her best not to appear as if she had used a listening charm!" Iris Parkinson clasped her hand in front of her mouth, desperately trying to hide her giggles. "Her face was priceless."

"Iris!"

"What a _perfect_ retort, Cecy. Do you know, she was griping about her magic becoming less firm, and telling all about those new anti-aging potion she certainly was never using, before you came? I was forced to endure it when mother made her round with me. _I must say no real witch would have use for anti-aging potions_ ," she mimicked and giggled louder. "Those were her words! And then this! _It makes you look old!_ Fantastic! That old bat won't show her face around you for a week." Then she pursed her lips. "But really, _Cuffe_?"

Iris Parkinson wrinkled her nose, hooking her arms under Cecilia's, pulling her over to a waiter to fetch something to drink. Cecilia shrugged.

"Why not?"

Iris pulled a face.

"Old, Cecy. Way old. Surely there must be other fine wizards around that might catch your fancy. Did you see that Norwegian fellow?" Her eyes adopted a dreamy look. "Rich, handsome, tall – and those eyes, my, the eyes! The most perfect shade of blue. He well ought to have witches throwing themselves at him after but a look."

Now Cecilia was giggling.

"Really, Iris, that ponce? He's got nothing on his brains but his looks, I'm sure! Cuffe is a perfectly reasonable choice. He's nice enough, rich, and most importantly, influential. What's there not to like? Besides," she went on, turning her head around to stare at the corner Iris had shown her with a smirk, "I love pushing that hag out of the picture."

Iris looked at her doubtfully.

"And he is in agreement?"

Cecilia snorted.

"Obviously not. But in cases like this it hardly is a matter of what _he_ wants, what matters is what the witch wants. The first rule, don't tell me you've forgotten. I will get him, they way I need him, never doubt it."

 _The Victory_

Through the many people, they made their way towards the opposite side of the large hall, a feat which took its time, for want of any urgency on their part. More than enough young wizards were there, waiting for a witch's critical eye and appraisal, and certainly they got their time's worth. Meandering slowly, they were halted by Gladys Gladrags appearing in their way. She made her reverences to the daughter of their host, and then, with formal stiffness, addressed Cecilia.

"If your friend is so disposed, I would ask for a minute of your time, Miss Selwyn."

Iris, though with an apprehensive look at her, asserted that she would not mind, and as Cecilia had an inclination about her intentions, and, indeed, had expected such a talk much sooner, she stepped aside with a certain amusement, waiting for Gladys to speak her mind.

It was clear as day that Gladys had been forced here, the moment they were alone. The brows tightly drawn together, her bearing erect and stiff; but still – or because of it? – addressing Cecilia in a manner of cold politeness, she finally spoke when it became clear that Cecilia would not.

"Miss Selwyn, let me be quite frank. You present a problem."

Cecilia raised an eyebrow.

"Such blunt words? No elegance, no eloquence? I am surprised, Gladys. Where has your fabled wit gone?"

"Wit without audience is meaningless, and elegance in expression is best kept for those with a breeding true enough to appreciate it."

"There you go. Is that not better? Imagine I have laughed heartily, and I promise I shall imagine I heard a reply witty enough for books and quotes instead of a kneasel market. That way, we both can pretend the other's excellence."

"There is a fine old saying you of course are familiar with: 'A cup of luck is too much of a good thing'; and I would not presume to be yours if you considered my excellence.– Likewise I would caution you against your own, so widely-admired words; all the beauty of your writing charm will not cover the ugliness of certain themes and do even less to shield you of the response."

"So I have to assume the problem you spoke of is my inability to hold you in high enough esteem," replied Cecilia, "for I could not be so strange as to presume you should do harm to a likely friend."

They stared at each other in silence after _that_ exchange; each contesting the other's endurance as a means to assert the superiority of their hand. Gladys looked away first, with a flash of disgust to be caught by anyone watching closely, though her smile never wavered. Cecilia delighted in the sheer absurdity of it; for she was very aware that Gladys, who was very little disposed to approve her, now – though the feeling had been well-received and returned happily enough – in a very welcome twist was forced by necessity to treat her with cordiality; a favour she had desired all night, but that Gladys, on any account, had turned out to be very unwilling to bestow.

"Perhaps then," allowed Gladys, breaking the silence, "perhaps we ought to sit down and have a talk. We parted rather abruptly. I should like to hear more about your _work_."

It was still spoken of with the same disgust she could not and did not want to conceal, but she was certainly practical enough to have recognised the power it held. And that, Cecilia thought, was the crux of the matter.

They seated themselves on a bench at the nearby wall, aside from the people passing to and fro, and Gladys began to inquire after her columns. Cecilia smiled, and Gladys smiled back at her, a smile that was as false as hers, now, and as false as the intention behind it was true. The words of praise uttered by Gladys could not have sounded more strange – but to her and most anyone here! – lies the lot of it, but what matter? The pretence was the point, in this and all, just as Cecilia has said, and it was no effort to muster words of thanks that were equally false.

"Thank you kindly. It is always a joy to meet readers."

"It was Larina who told me about it," replied Gladys, "I had talk with her just now, she used to be mine. She was full of praise. You did well by her."

The seamstress, then, of today's column. No surprise, given their closely related professions, and naturally it would vex her. The competition was the competition. Surprising, only, that Gladys should not have reacted sooner. Had she underestimated her opponent? Cecilia allowed herself a more open smile, and was rewarded by an icy one from Gladys. Well, no matter, the harvest of her carefully nourished saplings was there now.

"Mr. Cuffe keeps the content of that paper of his strictly separated by its nature," observed Gladys idly.

"Naturally," said Cecilia in great dignity. "Mr. Cuffe is very particular about things like that. What would the readers say to a paper of no order? Why, it would be chaos! The Quidditch scores next to the Wizengamot trials, the _Spellbound_ -serials within the advertisements – who would read it?"

"And yet, your column is yours."

"Within reason."

"Within reach of persons such as Larina?"

"Larina is a good friend who I love dearly. And with the nature of my columns being such as they are, you must agree that it would be quite impossible for me to write much of anything if I were to be expected not to be mentioning –"

"Yes." She was cut short by a sharp nod. "Say no more. I would not have you strain your pretty little mouth on my account."

Or, possibly, _stain_ hers, Cecilia thought. The disgust was still there, but now there was something more in Gladys' look, something hard and calculating, and the smile was no longer falsely sweet, but cold. Two predators stalking around each other stealthily, each aware of the other's movements, ready to pounce, in play or in earnest, who could tell? Cecilia was relishing it. Glady's face was a mask of marble.

"So you do know how to play this game. I shall be expecting something then. Watch your steps."

She rose, and so did Cecilia, turned around and walked away, leaving the young witch standing where she did.

She felt very pleased. This was an important step! Friends like Gladys she needed. Cecilia reflected that Gladys' new-found appreciation of her probably wouldn't extend as far as to places she weren't at or had her back turned to, but really, friendly behaviour whenever they were in the same company was all she wanted. And there might be other perks.

Deep in thought, she returned to Iris. The witch regarded her questioningly. "What did you do, Cecy?"

"Got myself a new wardrobe, I think."Cecilia eyed the retreating back of Gladys speculatively. "Yes, I rather think she would do that. We've made friends." She clutched the arm of Iris excitedly. "The latest imports from Paris, Iris! Just think! I'm dying to try on that blouse I saw the other month on my trip there. The fashion for witches in Paris is so much more progressive than what we have here, those stuffy, closed-up robes!"

"Friends! But – I thought she despised you – did not she try to expose you in front of everyone? I heard her! She must think very little of you indeed, how did this come about?"

"Why, yes." Cecilia looked at her as if she had grown a second head. "She would like nothing better than to hex me to the moon, ever since Uncle Geoffrey beat her to the seat on the governor's board. But since when does that mean we can't be friends? I do not think much of her either. She's a conceited old jarvey. That's got nothing to do with anything."

She shook her head.

"Sometimes, I do wonder about you, Iris."

Her Hogwarts friend looked at her speculatively.

"So you really do want to play together with the rest of them, do you?"

"I want to reach the very top. And I'm going to get there." She attached herself to other witch's arm again. "Now you do play hostess for a while, Iris, and show me round. Cuffe and Gladys or no, I shall be none the worse for yet another person to help me get to know all those important robes and dresses. You do know everyone you invited, do you?"

Iris pulled a face.

"Mother made me learn all the names, you can be sure of that. Two entire weeks of memory potions." She sighed. "Your tour, then. Might as well put them to use."

Yet she had not taken two steps, before she noted: "This is your first time here, is it not? I think you never visited before. I will tell you something about the house too, it is just as well. Father made sure I learned all about _that_ , but as opposed to the the names, it is actually interesting."

 _The Stone_

The tour was then given, and Iris related the names and dates faithfully, if none too enthusiastically. She had done so too many times before for it to still carry the excitement of the new; and thus there were also rather vacuous remarks such as: "Baroque, the whole lot of it. It's all somewhat golden and embellished, I suppose."

But Cecilia smiled, looked at the splendidly decked out hall and the painted ceiling, and replied: "It is wonderful, Iris."

"Well, I suppose it is. Usually, the collection is in this room and the ballroom, of course. Father had the house-elves moving the paintings and sculptures to the dungeons the entire last week, to create enough space for the ball."

Cecilia pointed ahead.

"There he is, look."

Her friend regarded her with a smirk.

"My father or your beau?"

Cecilia blushed, but gathered her composure quickly enough to reply: "Both. I was not aware Mr. Cuffe was particularly friendly with your father."

"They are not." Iris' happy expression turned into a worried frown. "I really do not know what those two are up to. Cuffe has been over almost daily in recent days. I think mother knows it, but she's not saying anything. I do hope they know what they are doing. In this climate, one wrong word could cost you more than a little gold."

"Oh, nonsense, Iris. You always worried too much. What would you have got to fear? You are wizards and witches of reputable nature, your entire family. It is not as if the world was in a state of anyone needing a constant look over their shoulder to regard that which is behind their back. Quite the opposite – never was it safer for wizards and witches everywhere!"

She slung an arm around the other girl.

"Come, your father and Barnabas just broke up, and the Minister is just ahead. I needs must pay my respects to him."

Iris shook her head.

"You go on, Cecy. I do not think both quite as fascinating as you do."

 _The Ripple_

The discussion to which Cecilia arrived centred around the place of the festivities and the change of circumstances that lead to it. As was traditional, the Walpurgis Night had been held at the Blocksberg in the Harz mountains on the continent for the last four hundred years, so today's activities presented a rather stark deviation thereof. The tall, dark-haired wizard she had seen on the hill's summit stood there, shaking his head, his manner resentful, as certain as Minister Thicknesse delighted in having managed to secure the event for his country. The ICW had been debating over it without pause for over a week.

"It should have been held at _Blocksberg_. Not once since the betrayal of Praetorius the Squib was uncovered in 1668 and the celebrations thus moved by a day ever since has it not been there."

Smilingly, Cecilia stepped up towards the wizards and said: "Well, I am sure they could not help it. No one could have known that the forest trolls would pick that place for their trollting so quickly. And certainly it is quite impossible to move a thousand trolls, so small blame to them! Though I hope you shall forgive me a little pride, sir, I am rather content we were able to have all of you this time." And towards Cuffe, she added. "There you are. I have been looking all over for you."

The foreign wizard regarded her as well as Cuffe with interest. "Would you be kind enough to introduce me to your pretty companion, Mr. Cuffe?"

"Certainly I shall – Cecilia Selwyn, Journalist, one of my own. And this, Cecilia, this is Chancellor Taurus Von Eichengruen, of Germany."

"Oh, the title of a journalist really does her a disservice," joined in Thicknesse animatedly. "She is one of our most progressive and influential thinkers. It has really grown to an academic circle this past year – Britain's Brightest, as I like to say. She wrote that treatise on the Wandless I told you about, Taurus. It was published in _Magical Britain_ last month. You might have read the issue."

So it was he, after all, Cecilia thought, satisfied. He was a fine fellow, tall, with a strong, distinctive face, and a sharp look, surely used to giving orders, and even better used to having them followed. Certainly someone she would like to know better! And here she was, with his attention on her, doing just that. He gazed, at turns, at her and the Minister, a sharp frown creasing his forehead.

" _Magical Britain_? So the Ministry's voice, then? Is she one of your authors?"

"No, no – not at all. She is an independent – really, Taurus, do try and remember that we no longer censor the people here. That was an unfortunate by-product of stabilising the Ministry after the turbulences last year. It's no longer necessary now, and I am glad for it. No, Miss Selwyn writes whatever is her wish. She is far more progressive than I could ever be. She's scolding me in her famous _Prophet_ columns at least twice a week."

Thicknesse let out a hearty laugh. Von Eichengruen smiled.

"Ah, I see. The conflict between the pure, clear space of ideals and the muddy realm of _Realpolitik_. But we need both, do we not – the latter is what makes life work, but we need the former to push us to keep reaching for the highest goals and prevent us from becoming complacent. Is it not so?"

He took a sip from his from his glass and considered the witch in front of him.

"I say, Miss Selwyn, Pius here invited me to do a spot of Muggle Hunting – tomorrow, before I return home. Curious thing, that, I have to say; certainly not well-received everywhere as you must know, but I want to get my own measure of it. Would you not like to join us? I should like to hear more of your ideas. Provided –" he glanced at the Minister "– this is all right with you, Pius."

The Minister shrugged.

"Certainly, Taurus. I shall enjoy fencing with Miss Selwyn over the Wandless-issue. Tomorrow at eleven, then – we will have lunch at the reserve."

Von Eichengruen bid the company farewell soon after, and when the Minister excused himself as well, leaving in the directions of the stairs – perhaps only too aware of the looks exchanged between the other two that made his presence here gratuitous –, for a moment, Cecilia and Barnabas were in solitude. He beheld her with a certain fondness that brought a rosy flush to her cheeks.

"Have you been up at Whisper Gallery? Gyles moved most of the art, but the paintings at the gallery remained."

She shook her head, not trusting herself to give any other response.

"Come, then, I'll show you."

They went up the grand staircase far behind the Minister, noticeable only due to his superior height, and turned right at the head of the stairs, into a long corridor that rested in deep silence, only filled by a mysterious whisper that to her ears appeared to sound from all around her. Fascinated, she turned towards her companion and enquired as to the source.

"You have truly never been here before? The whisper stems from charms, it mutes all sound. Even our very own voices; if you were to move a step back, you would hear me speak no longer. Only a whisper remains."

She did so, and found he was right, and, in moving back to Cuffe's side, asked him about the reason. He lead her closer to the wall, where a painting showed a grim-faced warlock in a dark cave. As soon as she had reached a certain distance, a desperate scream pierced the silence, prompting her to cover her ears, and stumble backwards into the blissfully silent corridor.

"Dear me, what is _that_?"

"A painting of Ignotus," replied Cuffe, amused. "As is quite evident, he is insane. Without the charms you would not want to roam this hallway."

"I would not, indeed." With a shudder, Cecilia stepped further back, and breached the silent space of a different painting. An augurey was sitting the branch of a lonely birch in a moor, and trilled his beautiful, yet bitterly sad song. Cecilia could listen but for a moment's time, before she felt the overflowing feelings begging to be released in a weeping for all the lost and gone beauty in the world. She quickly walked away from the wall and glanced at Cuffe in alarm.

"It would be madness in this gallery without the charms."

"Quite."

"Are all the paintings of such violent nature, then?"

"What you deem a 'violent nature' is the height of painting – to capture the highest and lowest feelings in a frame, to inspire the deepest movements within the observer. This is one of the finest private collections of magical art in Europe. However, there are as well painting more agreeable to you, I dare say. Come along."

They walked down the gallery, past famous wizards and witches, past merfolk from the the deepest oceans, past phoenixes nesting on the most remote mountaintops, past the entire world, condensed into a space measuring but a few steps, each offering a new glimpse into a different part of it, like thousands of windows in a wall round the earth.

"This is the most astonishing and most singularly valuable painting of the collection. They say it was the life's work of the great Artisia Armagade. If she did create other paintings, none of them are known today. We only know the one, and perhaps it is the most perfect painting ever created."

Barnabas stopped in front of a nave, exactly opposite the head of the stairs, halfway around the gallery. In the recess in the wall it hang – or stood? or was it part of the wall, even? – certainly ten paces wide, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, a painting so realistic she fancied she could step inside and walk over the grassy lawn to the great oak doors leading into the castle, for it depicted Hogwarts. Cuffe spoke in a soft voice, as though he would not wish to disturb the solemn silence by any means, if possible.

"Her work on it is said to have begun in 1027, just after the Founders had finished the castle. The tale goes that she challenged herself to craft a painting to capture the spirit of every living being in Hogwarts of her time, and perhaps she achieved it. She worked on it till her death. Magipictors of every century since have examined it until Ralfe Parkinson acquired it for Ravensholme when he build it in 1602, yet no one has ever managed to discover all persons, animals and other beings within. At least three hundred people occupy the castle, but it might be many more."

Cecilia listened in pleasure to him detailing the persons and their histories; how some of them came when called, while others, such as the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest on showed themselves on certain times as during a Great Conjunction, every twenty years.

Cecilia watched a bird flutter away from a branch in the background. She thought she heard a very faint chirping – slightly stony, but there it was; she stood, for how long she could not say, admiring the imagination that had thought, and the command of magic that had created the painting. When she could tear her gaze away, she found the Minister standing just behind her

"The Collège d'Art in Paris, the Palazzo Maggiore in Rome, everyone of the opinion to owe the visitors of _their_ collections of art the pleasure of regarding the mural while at the same time attempting to elate their reputation beyond anything they could achieve on their own has tried to add it to their exhibitions, by making incredible offers of gold or other paintings to Parkinson, but he would not sell. Not until a month ago, when by the Minister's good fortune, the plans unveiled for our new National Museum of Magical Art prompted Parkinson to endow it to that institution."

Thicknesse, stepping up to her left, nodded his head gravely.

"The building is to become the biggest attraction in Diagon Alley, and the mural its greatest treasure," he said in his deep voice. "A place truly worthy of it, and it will be worthy of the place. Everyone will come to see it. It should open by next year."

Cecilia grabbed Barnabas' arm and squeezed it, deeply moved, all of a sudden.

"This is it, isn't it? This, right here. The painting. The museum. The new Diagon Alley and Magic Alley." She spun around, towards the parapet, looking at the large ballroom below, full of wizards and witches, of pureblooded, _real_ wizards and witches, but that was not worth mentioning, for, finally, it was what the word _meant_. "All the people. This is what the Founders always dreamed about. A world for ourselves. We have achieved it."

And she stood, struck by the solemnity of the moment, as in the culmination of her dream, the golden dome above, the witches and wizards below, between Minister and lover; a singular instant in time, meeting her in regal beauty; to be forever remembered, a treasure stored within her for all times, fraught with meaning, shining in perfection.

So full of happiness felt she that she feared she might burst; so full of affection and pleasure that nothing could possibly disturb her now, and enough yet to compensate for any disappointment she had faced, and any that was still to come.

She hardly noticed the wizard arrive at her side, whispering something to the Minister's ear, and only turned her head when the latter placed his hand on the shoulder of Cuffe, and pulled him aside. Unable to hear anything by virtue of the charms, she watched their interaction with a small frown, which increased as both returned to her, tense and disquiet.

"My dear Cecilia, I fear we have to postpone our activities for tomorrow. Taurus received an urgent message and had to leave posthaste, and I shall have things to attend to as well."

She regarded the tall, austere man with his high, clever forehead in silence, the magic of the moment gone as sudden as the sounds of the paintings once outside their spell, and wondered what would be the disturbance of her peace.

"You would spare me the disappointment if in any way you could," finally replied she, "for I cannot pretend the nonexistence of such feelings, but it is well; the pressure of the circumstances gets to us all at times. Give my regards to the Chancellor before he leaves."

"I certainly shall, at that. We will make up for it, Cecilia, this I promise."

The Minister bowed and left; and she stood with Cuffe alone at the parapet, looking down into the ballroom, suddenly aware that, even though time was inching steadily towards the grand ball opening at midnight, not a few people seemed inclined to break up or had already left, not too many to make the hall appear empty by any means, but enough for her sharp eyes to notice. The foreign politicians seemed among them, but Narcissa was nowhere to be seen either, nor were important Ministry officials such as Yaxley nor, indeed, the silver-streaked head of the Minister.

And then Cuffe turned to leave as well, and she followed him to the broad staircase, down into the hall.

 _The Wave_

The shadows of the Knights are missing.

Behind the windows, the hill looms in the darkness, black and silent, the bonfire a sole dot of light on the summit. The flames of the pyre start rising higher, dancing in the wind, no longer kept in check, broken free of the chains of magic, stronger, wilder, brighter, the manor below clearly visible – but no one is watching. And as in a mirror, in a dark castle a hundred miles away, a baleful orange glow lights up a hidden room, fire shaping furious beasts – spreading unrestrained and quickly, moving around like fiery demons, flaming serpents that are coiling themselves around the pillars of the cathedral-like hall, chimaeras and dragons, breathing fire and existing by fire –

" _What can we do?" Hermione screamed over the deafening roars of the fire. "What can we do?"_

Red burns the night; two places linked as though with fiery bond, here and there, a hill and a castle; full of noises and sounds, the roaring firestorm, the crackling of burning wood, shouts, and on the stake, a terrible scream –

 _What a terrible way to die … He had never wanted this …_

But still, no one is listening.

" _Harry, let's get out, let's get out!" bellowed Ron, though it was impossible to see –_

And suddenly, the certainty: that no one will come, whatever those knights did to the fire is fading, instead of a tickle, it now burns hot, swallowing everything, consuming the night – the hall –

 _He sprinted, half believing he could outdistance death itself, ignoring the jets of light flying in the darkness all around him, and the sound of the lake crashing like the sea …_

Twenty-four hours in a day, an hour with sixty minutes, and now all but a few of them left. There – now – four silver-strokes, bright and clear, and twelve dark, brassy ones, heralding the end of the world …

"The first dance? Truly, I shan't be able to bear it if she has it, Iris. Do something – her goblet, there, just knock it over –"

 _Jets of light flew in every direction and the man duelling Percy backed off, fast: His hood slipped, and they saw a high forehead and streaked hair –_

Three …

Two …

One …

Relashio!

 _It was midnight. The battle had begun._

The goblet tips over, her mouth slowly forming an exclamation, the blood-red liquid spilling over the rim …

 _Harry saw bursts of light in the distance and heard a weird, keening scream._

"You! I know it was you, you little –"

"How could I, if I had gone forth freshening up myself? Something you should consider, with the state of that dress –"

The goblet on the ground.

The fire in the night.

The drops of red –

The burst of green –

 _The Dance_

" _Music!"_

The first beats of the dance kept her in joyful suspense, the breathless anticipation of the almost-achieved, the not-quite-daring-to-believe of the imminent success after a bold move; a wonderful feeling she savoured until everything dissolved in bliss when they started to move, alongside the hundreds of other couples, all arrayed neatly throughout the ballroom in Ravensholme Manor.

She forgot everything around, aware only of his touch and his proximity, melting in his strong arms, to lead her wherever he wished, back – back – close, forth – forth – close …

Her personal dream, reality here in his embrace, in the dance, in the golden hall, in the world they had created for themselves; a beautiful world, the first and the last of it: red wine and raging fire, glinting gold and flashes of green … tonight was their night – their _night_ … forever night.

No light, no moon – no stars, just the flickering spells, a thunderstorm raging across the castle, the magic its lightning and death cries its thunder. Words and gestures bringing vicious ends, cries and despairing shouts, magic and madness; the other side of a dream, a dream that must not fade.

Must not – _must not_! A shout into the night, shaking the foundations – of the hall, of the castle, of the world. Must not? Hurtling towards the end, decked out in silk, in silver and gold; gearing up for a final dance, directed by the beat of a waltz, one-two-three, turning, twirling, moving across the shiny marble, running across the bloody field, white masks there, blinding those that might see, and blindness here, masking that which might be seen.

And the screams of the dying and the music of the dancing seemed to mingle, as though within a symphony of perdition, miles apart but inseparably linked; the one the ignorant of the other, thus each the cause and the effect. Everything in motion, three steps forth and three steps back, and never breath, never time to linger … between the here and there, between the dancing, and the dying.

* * *

 _Leave a comment to tell me what you think :)_

 _Until next time!_


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